Knight, Interrupted
by katyclismic
Summary: Bevier’s heading back to Arcium, but his course is forever altered by an otherworldly intrusion – Beautiful. Deadly. Really bad at foreign languages.
1. Lost and Found

**Author notes:**  
-This exceedingly strange epic cross-over has been floating in the back of my mind, begging to be written, for close to three years. Why? Something about the interaction just sparks my curiosity, and makes me squee.  
-The main character is a particularly religious one, and when it's his point of view, there's going to be a lot of deity references and possible preachiness. I'm not trying to convert people, just writing the character.  
-The usual patter: I'm not making any money off this, don't sue, only doing it because I adore the works, etc.

**Knight, Interrupted **

_Part I: Collision_

by katyclismic

**Chapter 1: Lost and Found**

These woods were always beautiful in the autumn. Stands of birch and oak shed their leaves thickly over the smaller brush, which left the forest above and below with a yellow gilt that shone brighter than any gold coin. The stallion's hooves made muffled thumps on the dry earth, disturbing the patterns of leaves as they lay on the road. The simple silence and beauty of this place tempted him to stop and pray, but he had many leagues yet to travel and the afternoon was waning. Bevier winced at the intrusive clanking of his armor and the creaking of the saddle, wishing briefly that he could ride light and bareback as he once had as a boy. The sheer weight and fuss of the armor he bore precluded the temptation, unfortunately, so he had to content himself with removing his helmet.

_No matter, I can appreciate this perfect example of God's love for the world as I travel through it_, the knight told himself firmly. He was in God's service, and it would behoove him to remember that he needed armor for a reason. Even in such a peaceful area as Lindlair, it was prudent to be cautious of bandits and ne'er-do-wells - though they would be foolish indeed to try the patience of a Church Knight.

He had continued along the trail for a good league when, as if summoned by his earlier doubts, there was a flash in the corner of his eye. Bevier wheeled the stallion, instinctively reaching out to catch – nothing. Blinking in surprise, he examined his traitorously empty hand. Perhaps he had imagined… but no, there was a wisp of thread or hair caught in his gauntlet. He surveyed the empty forest in surprise, observing the lack of hiding places and general silence. After a second of perplexed searching, he reached down to reaffirm that his panniers were full, and the unpleasant shock of their absence made him scowl more deeply. Stolen.

He brought his gauntlet closer to his face. It was a blue strand, nearly three feet in length. Stumped, he sat for a minute on his oddly restless stallion, surveying the underbrush. The chances of a piece of rare blue cloth that big belonging to a common thief were slim at best, and hair simply didn't come in that color. For that matter, getting a three foot long unbroken thread from a flailing grasp of cloth was pushing the limits of credulity, unless the cloth was ridiculously frayed. _Ah_, he thought with a sudden certainty, _that would fit_. A thief with a stolen bolt of cloth would probably wear it to disgraceful levels of disrepair, and no matter how they obtained it.

The idea that a thief snuck so close to him without being seen or heard was not unlikely; he had not been paying close attention, and had he not just thought to himself that his armor was clanking obnoxiously? Yet the skill of this thief in eluding his grasp and hiding afterwards bordered on the eerie. The forest was not so thick that a person wearing a blue cloak would be able to hide easily in such a short time.

"I will return," he announced in a tone that had been trained to carry over the din of battle. "And punishment will rain down on those who tempt God's wrath!" He paused to listen, then added in a lower, hardened voice, "…incarnated in _me_." Bevier wheeled the stallion once more around the clearing for a last look, and trotted away down the trail.

High above him in the trees, a slight figure burdened down with leather saddlebags smiled smugly, and leapt away.

.o.

The inn, as he had remembered, was less than an hour away. The beauty of the forest was lost on him as he finished the last several miles in a brisk canter, determined to head back and deal with the thief that evening. The inn's courtyard was mostly empty as he entered, but a stable boy raced out as he dismounted and claimed the stallion for the stables. "Keep him warm," Bevier said over his shoulder, "I'll not be long."

The interior of the inn was dark, and as his eyes adjusted Bevier noticed with some dismay that it was also rather in disrepair. A few of the locals still seemed to frequent the place, however, and the serving maid was bustling between scattered tables. The noise level dropped considerably as he caught the people's attention, then resumed in a subdued buzz. Ignoring this reaction, he hailed the bartender.

"What kin I help you with, good Sir Knight?" the man offered nervously. His apron was yellow with grease and beer, but he started pulling a draft before the knight even voiced his thirst.

"Information, if you would be so kind," Bevier said politely, then took a mouthful of mellow ale. "I was accosted on my way here, and I was wond-"

"Surely not!" the man interrupted in astonishment. At the knight's flat stare, he stammered an apology, then went on, "I never- well, wit' you being a Church Knight and all, I wouldn'ta thought they'd dare! Matter of fact, I was just thinking your lordship might help us wit' 'em."

"Ah. I take it this has been an ongoing problem, then?"

"Oh, aye," groused the man. "Bin keeping business away, they have."

Bevier eyed the serving room doubtfully, but continued, "How many attacks have been reported?"

The man looked blank for a second, then screwed up his broad face in thought. The resulting expression looked rather painful. "Ooh, I'd say twice or thrice a week, for the last two months, like. Well, they was here before that, but didn't come out quite so much."

The knight was somewhat startled. Generally bandits weren't known for such regularity. "It is a large group, needing a lot of supplies? Has anyone got a good look?"

The barman laughed uneasily, and grabbed his mug to refill it. "See, Sir Knight," he hesitated until the foam hit the top of the rim, "That's why we've been hoping for a churchly intervention such as yerrself." Bevier looked at him sharply. "We knew the leader was ol' Yorie's bastard, and the rest of the roughs, three or four of them, were normal enough scum. Hold you up, demand your cash, the usual. Then when they started to hit harder, folks started saying they was, uh…" After scanning the room, the barman leaned in close and whispered nervously, "They was using dark magic, M'Lord."

Bevier's initial urge to go charging off into the forest was sternly repressed. More often than not, such rumors were born of ignorance and could not be taken too seriously, like tales of Styrics eating Elene babies. The uneasy memories of the afternoon danced mockingly in front of his mind, however. He responded evenly, "And why are they saying that, exactly?"

"They're too quiet and too tricksy, mostly," the man explained in a low tone. "Sometimes people don't even know they been robbed 'til they get here, or even to town. And sometimes the scum stick to the old ways, and confront people outright, but later they that's been robbed realize that more has been taken that they'd handed over to them." The man mopped his forehead, dripping as if he himself was standing in peril of supernatural thievery. "So folks figure they've got to have a demon or the like lifting the goods, because no human could do it so quiet and fast, My Lord."

Bevier only grunted acknowledgement; he knew certain people who could strip a carriage far faster than these simple people could dream, but that revelation would be an upsetting association for a Cyrinic Church Knight. A Hand of God is not supposed to associate with common thieves, except possibly in the abrupt repentance of previous sins. He considered briefly as he finished his beer, judging his strength and mission, and adding the length of time to the nearest chapterhouse to the chance of further robberies and murders-

His thoughts halted abruptly at the last, and he asked sharply, "Has there been any deaths, or… other violence?"

"Well, not recently, praise God." The barkeep sounded somewhat torn between appreciating their good fortune and being bored by the lack of gossip. "Last one who resisted got sliced open, but that was near five weeks ago."

"They have committed murder, though?" Bevier's eyes were unsettlingly bright to the other man, and there was a strange curl to his smile. "My job just got a little easier, good barkeep."

.o.

It was really very disappointing.

The last light of the day was shining through the trees when Bevier found them, and the roughs scattered as he burst into the clearing, throwing gooey plates of food and jugs in every direction in a mad scramble for weapons. A single beheading of the nearest criminal – and a good look at the armor-clad, Lochaber-bearing Church Knight - made them all drop to their knees and plead for mercy. It made for a woefully short fight, though, and Bevier was feeling unsatisfied.

He removed their weapons and trussed them up in a line to follow him back to town to face their eventual hanging, praying in a loud and pointed manner (though of course perfectly sincere, for this was Sir Bevier, after all) for God to have mercy on them if anything _forbidden_ was revealed during the trial. The four men looked a bit uneasy at this, but not particularly guilty, which Bevier found terribly interesting. After securing them to the saddle, he knelt by the headless body for a moment. "God will judge your soul, for any sins you have committed against His sight, for He is just, and He is wise; may He also be forgiving." He was silent for a moment longer, finishing mentally, _May He also forgive me for presuming to pass judgment; all I do is in His name. _"Amen."

Feeling better, he turned and looked at the campsite. It was, typically, filthy and not particularly well-planned. His nose informed him that the latrine and garbage pit were far too close to camp. Several crude tents sheltered nests of furs, and bits of food, wine, weapons and treasures were strewn across the forest carpet, probably in some part from his dramatic entrance. There was no obvious sign of dark magics, however, nor was there anything resembling blue cloth. The treasures seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, but he kept a keen eye on the thieves for reactions as he poked through the detritus.

The heaviest thief snarled as he neared the northern end, alerting Bevier. A jade pendant and a small pearl-inlaid box, truly rare on this part of the continent, were shoved under the crook of a tree root. He fished them out and looked at them carefully. The pendant seemed ordinary, if expensive, but the designs on the box were foreign to him – a significant claim for a man who, in recent years, had traveled the breadth of the known world. Mightily curious now, he tucked the items in his tunic for safe-keeping and returned to his stallion.

The thief who had reacted before glared at him through lank hair, but one was panicky and the other two had a dull, hopeless look in their eyes. Getting ever more intrigued, Bevier grinned at them. "Why do I get the feeling that this box will add some spice to the upcoming events, my brothers?"

"We're _not_ your brothers," spat the angry one.

"We are all brothers under the holy sight of the one true God," Bevier informed him serenely. "In any case my method of appellation is least among the things you should be concerning yourself with. What you _should_ be worried about, and I mean this sincerely, is the rumors that have been spreading about your unique abilities."

"It's not us," blurted the panicky one, a smaller man with slightly less ragged clothes. "We don't have nothing to do with that!"

"Shut _up_, you moron, he'll not believe you."

Bevier mounted during the ensuing cussing session, and led them back to the road.

"We got to say something, or they'll give us to the Church inquisitors!"

"You think they won't anyway? Save something to give them later, idiot."

Uncomfortable as this last comment made Bevier, he was more intrigued by the clear indications that these men were no more magical than a barrel of flour. Interrupting the muttered argument, he said to them in a conversational tone, "I'm intrigued by this box, I think. I doubt that any of you would have the skill necessary to use it, nor conjure it, which means you are probably in over your heads, dealing with a force you can't understand or control." The silence behind him was answer enough. He continued over the muffled clopping of his horse's hooves. "What makes me very curious is how you've managed to survive this long, and what it is exactly that you've set loose."

More silence, deeper this time, with no shuffling footsteps behind him. Frowning, he turned and gaped in astonishment, looking at the equally wide-eyed brigands - ten strides away and arms unbound, fetters fallen to the forest floor. The severed tether hung limply from Bevier's saddle. At the first movement he spurred his mount instinctively, prepared to race after them – but was immediately forced to cut sideways to keep from trampling the three brigands still huddled in his path, exchanging fearful glances at the woods around them. Only the last and angriest of the bunch had made a break for the trees, leaping over roots and bushes in his way.

Without thinking, Bevier sent his stallion surging after. In a few strides they were caught up and a single blow from his axe split the upper torso of the thief in two. Whirling, Bevier noted that the thieves still huddled together in the clearing. He shook the blood off his weapon idly. The forest around them showed no sign of whatever had cut their bonds, but he hadn't expected any.

He castigated himself for his own impatience. What Bevier needed now was information, not corpses, and he only hoped that the remaining thieves could provide him with the particulars. His job might well have changed from thief-catcher to protector. Bevier said a brief prayer over the dead highwayman and trotted back.

Again, high above and far away, a figure scowled. _I gave them the chance, so_ _why didn't they run, the idiots? There goes my cover. _A shudder. _And that is a dangerous, dangerous man._

.o.

Shortly after securing the thieves in the stocks of Lindlair, Bevier found that there was no chapterhouse in the little hamlet and had to make do with the lone inn of the town. Despite its lack of competition the service was good, and as an added bonus his manservant, Delric, found him easily when he finally arrived in town. The old family servant was supposed to have met Bevier when he separated from the party traveling back through Lamorkand, but Delric had sent word that "family matters" would delay his departure for a few days. Bevier thought little of it, figuring that the man probably had to dance attendance on some of his mother's guests. The suspicion was confirmed when Delric arrived at the inn late that evening, still grumbling slightly but cheerful to be away from the castle's bustle. Though the man had aged since their last meeting, they slid easily into the familiar banter of old acquaintance. After breifly reassuring Bevier that all was well with the family, Delric trotted downstairs to arrange a meal while Bevier sat on the bed and mused over the course of the day. He still had far more questions than answers.

The few coals in their brazier was more than adequate for the mild fall evening, though Bevier knew he would appreciate its presence come morning. The reddish light set aglow both wooden walls and burnished steel, giving his armor an illusory warmth where it hung in the corner of the rented room. Bevier stared blankly at the glowing coals, thinking. There were too many loose ends, too much unknown. Unless he was greatly mistaken, there was little chance of those common brigands having anything to do with the mysterious power he had encountered in the woods. The carved box was almost certainly part of it, and the dead thief had known it somehow. It was remotely possible that he had more magical skill than his companions, but again, Bevier doubted it from their overheard conversations. Either way, the box was the key. His gaze shifted to it, sitting quietly on the table next to the window, no bigger than a wild apple. It made him uneasy somehow, as if his eyes wanted to reject it, declare it non-existent. He moved his gaze back to the comforting familiarity of the brazier.

When Bevier had tried to examine the box on the ride to town, he saw that it was circled by eight exquisitely executed carvings, two to a side; each one was unique and curiously complicated. There was a single figure on the top and bottom of the box, a much simpler sign that his eyes nonetheless refused to focus on. If he forced himself to look at them, an unnerving dizziness swept over him like an illness, so rather than force himself Bevier spent most of his time tracing the side markings with a finger. It was doubtful that any of the markings would make be decipherable to the scholars in Coombe in any case, so he did not force himself to try and memorize the ill-spelled sigils - he preferred to imperil his soul only when necessary. They matched no runes or alphabet that he had ever seen, so he wasn't positive that they were writing or even in any way significant, but the sensation of power coming from the strange container indicated some kind of incantation or seal.

There didn't seem to be anything in it, though there was no obvious way for him to open it and check and he hesitated to forcibly crack it open. It was hardly large enough to fit much of anything, except perhaps a piece of jewelry or gems. _Or_, he though darkly, _some arcane talisman, some small bit of evil_. The thought made him scowl. Having such evil close to him made him intensely uncomfortable, though he knew that he was far better equipped to resist it than most folk in the vicinity. He said a small prayer, feeling reassured by the protection it gave.

A knock on the bolted door broke his concentration, and he started up to answer. Expecting Delric, he began unbolting the door before asking, "Who is it?" A feminine voice answered, and he stopped just before opening the door.

"Yer servant, M'Lord, he asked me to drop this off for you. He's tendin' the horses, sir," a hopeful voice responded. Satisfied, Bevier opened the door to meet the awed blue eyes of the serving maid. Her eyes dropped to his chest and widened further at the sight of his half-laced undershirt. Bevier, internally cursing his forgetfulness, grabbed the tray as politely as possible, quickly expressed his gratitude and shut the door again. He had forgotten to put on his tunic, and Arcian barmaids weren't nearly as used to half-clad men as the Tamuls. Not that the shirt itself was especially shocking, but in Arcadia, anything less than fully dressed was nearly scandalous. Bevier sighed in exasperation and, possibly for the first time, irritation at the customs of his homeland.

The stew was hearty and the bread free of grit, but the good mood it fostered in Bevier was immediately dispelled when Delric stopped by to report. The servant was short and wiry, with black hair receding from a wrinkled forehead, though the laugh lines around Delric's mouth were more pronounced. The manservant, though to all appearances serious, had obviously been hearing things. "My Lord, I see you've eaten. Was everything to your liking?" Bevier nodded shortly, his mouth still full of bread. "Well, I can always call up another serving girl if you need anything."

Bevier looked at him with narrowed eyes but responded with equal politeness. "No thank you, Delric, I'm sure they're too busy. That's what you're here for, if you recall."

"Oh, but they're all just standing around the kitchen, giggling like loons. I'm sure it wouldn't put them out in the slightest." Delric leaned in to examine Bevier's armor and murmured, "There may even be volunteers." A speck of dust caught his attention and he rubbed it away with a cloth, pointedly not looking at Bevier. The knight closed his eyes and shoved more stew into his mouth, chewing ferociously.

"Well, there's not much we can do tonight," Bevier began after a moment, trying to change the subject. He gave the servant a preemptive warning look when an ever-so-slight twinkle appeared in the man's eyes. "About the _thieves_, Delric. In any case, I don't think those buffoons are really the issue here. I hate to leave the area, but we need to contact the preceptor about the matter. We'll leave in the morning for Coombe." He fell silent for a moment, looking at the pearl and walnut box on the table, then continued quietly, "I can only hope the situation doesn't worsen while we're gone."

The servant, truly serious now, bowed in acquiescence and turned to leave. "I'll get supplies together, if that is what My Lord wishes."

"Yes, do so. And Delric-"

"My Lord?"

"I do plan on apologizing to that girl."

"I'm sure it isn't necessary, My Lord."

"I shall, nonetheless."

"I'm really quite sure she's okay with it, My Lord."

"_Thank you_, Delric."

.o.

Despite having to avoid the common room the next morning, Bevier was cheerful as they left Lindlair. He had little left to do there since the thieves were incarcerated; he just had to make sure that they wouldn't be executed before he was absolutely sure that their curse wouldn't somehow backfire on the townspeople. After a brief prayer at the tiny church, knight and manservant stopped by the stocks on their way out of town for one last interrogation.

The three thieves were irritated and fearful, but fairly cooperative. Bevier quizzed them again on the circumstances of their possession of the box, and the answers were the same. They had found the box in with a large bundle of curiosities from an Elene traveler, an old man who threatened them with retribution for their crimes. The nervous thief claimed to have heard the man mutter something over the bundle as he passed it over, but he hadn't understood the words at the time. They let him go on with only some worthless papers and his under-tunic, but since that time they had been haunted by some manner of devil.

"He's haunting us," wailed the man. "We'd not been able to rid ourselves of it yet. We'd been getting rid of all the things we got from the old geezer, once we started hearing the rumors, except Bernard had to keep a couple of the most expensive for last." He hung limply in the rack. "The curse was on one of them, looks like."

"You never actually saw anything, though?" He had asked before, but it never hurt to retread a confession.

"Nay, apart from that bit right after you took us." He flinched and shivered at the memory.

One of the quieter ones spoke up. "There was a flash of blue and we was free, but consortin' with demons ain't something we'd do, sir. Not at any cost."

Bevier nodded in grim approval. Despite their criminal turning, they were still Arcium peasant stock, fundamentally incapable of major sacrilege. Then he blinked. "A flash of _blue_, you said? Like a light?"

"No, a blue shape went by. Man-sized or thereabouts," responded the third man. "Almost too fast to see, wunnit?" The other two bobbed their heads in agreement, their disembodied heads almost comical.

"I thought I saw a bit of red, too," offered the first thief eagerly.

Bevier _hmm_ed thoughtfully at this new information. "You never noticed anything like the rumors said, though?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the middle thief said slowly, "Well, we wasn't absolutely sure. But things tended to go missing more often lately. Food and clothing. A dagger, I think. Unimportant stuff." After a moment of thought, the other two voiced agreement. _Non-valuables, more like,_ thought Bevier. _How odd._

For a minute the knight stared off into space, thoughts galloping. Delric coughed pointedly, and he blinked. "Yes. You have my thanks for your help, brothers. I'm sure your cooperation will be noted in your favor." The thieves looked somewhat cheered, and Bevier didn't disabuse them of the notion that it would matter in _this_ world's judgment.

.o.

The road to Coombe took them through heavy forest on the south side of Lindlair, eventually thinning to small copses of birch and maple. Bevier preferred it that way, for though he admired the forest, lurking dangers were far more likely there. The memory of yesterday's mysterious theft sent a creeping itch up his spine with every swishing branch and animal rustling. He pushed his stallion to a gallop, rapid hoof beats muffling most of the forest noises.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, both Bevier's destrier and Delric's gelding were lathered and steaming in the cool air. Spotting a likely meadow, he allowed his horse to trot off the road and into the grass. Delric followed not far behind, his horse also snatching at the old wisps of meadow grass. As he thought, Bevier discovered a tiny rivulet back by the trees and dismounted as his horse snuffled delightedly into the water.

"We're making good time, I think," commented Bevier. He pulled off his glove to dip a hand into the cool water, upstream of the horses, and drank.

"Aye, M'Lord," nodded Delric. "Wouldn't take more than three days at this pace, if we could keep it up." He dug in the saddlebags for bread and cheese, knowing that they would not stop for a hot meal.

Bevier snorted humorlessly, acknowledging the implicit reminder that both men and horses would be far too exhausted by such a ride. Delric handed a hunk of bread to Bevier, who accepted it with thanks and said, "We'll get a bit of rest this afternoon, since it will be too warm. Brush them down a bit when you're done, I'll be back in a minute." He left Delric digging out a towel and curry brushes, both horses grazing freely.

Bevier munched on the dark bread as he trod on the thick mat of yellow-green grass. The stream meandered down from a copse of trees, chiming pleasantly in the fall afternoon. In the sun-dappled shadows of the copse, birch and maple had sunk their roots into the rich earth, grass and smaller bushes filling the gaps between, their crowns patterned with yellow leaves. Turning, he could still see Delric through the trees, fussing over the horses. Reassured, the knight wound his way further into the copse, ears perked for any unusual noises. Only a sighing wind and the occasional bird filled the silence, along with the more clumsy rustles from his boots. He smiled, looking around.

There it was, the source of the stream: a small artesian fountain, bubbling from cracked mound of earth and rock. Tiny blue flowers radiated from the center, obviously thriving from the extra watering. Bevier crouched and let the water run over his fingers for a moment, enjoying the sensation. He flicked the water from his hands, scattering shimmering droplets over the flowers. _Bless you, my children_, he thought, grinning. He stood for a moment longer, breathing in the forest air. Closing his eyes, he prayed, _May I never forget what wonders this world holds. There is so much here to love, and so much to protect. May You grant me the wisdom and strength to do both. _He released another calming breath, feeling some tension ease from his shoulders.

When he opened his eyes again, there it stood.

Or rather, there _she_ stood.

She looked furious, and, truth be told, severely disheveled.

_to be continued..._

* * *

Tell me what you think! 

I blame indygodusk for filling me with evil glee at the thought of cliffhangers. Mwahaha!

_References:_

The whole thing, of course, is based on the works of David Eddings and, ah, someone else. Delric and incidental characters are my own creation.

Title from "Girl, Interrupted" by Susanna Kaysen


	2. Wish You Were Here

A/N:

Though I'm using them for my own nefarious ends, neither of these worlds belong to me and all copyrighted stuff is… well, at least not being used for profit.

The main character is a particularly religious one, and when it's his point of view, there's going to be a lot of deity references and possible preachiness. I'm not trying to convert people, just writing the character. I think I forgot to mention that this is an immediately post-Tamuli story. There's more notes after the chapter – I don't want to spoil anything!

**Chapter 2: Wish You Were Here**

Bevier simply stared for a moment. The arrival of this obviously foreign creature was so far beyond what he was expecting that all thought came to a frozen halt, though his hand reflexively gripped the hilt of his dagger.

It was a young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen at most. She was short and shapely, coming up only to Bevier's chest, but she had the ready stance of a trained warrior. She also had no visible weapons, but after traveling with the Atana Mirtai for so long, he knew that was little comfort. There were many bloody scratches on her face and limbs, as if she had crawled through a bramble bush. The dress she was wearing, if it could be called that, was closer to a close-fitted tunic than a properly full skirt and blouse, and her long, bare legs ended in absurdly clunky leather boots. Her dress was filthy and torn, yet beautifully tailored (almost too well-tailored to be decent, his vulgar hindbrain noted) in a brilliant red silk with intricate gold embroidery and lining.

Golden skin and almond eyes normally would have classed her as a Tamul, but no race he had ever laid eyes on had such a hair color. To top off the strangeness, both literally and figuratively, she had long tresses of bright blue hair, partially done up in buns with expensive-looking hair clips. The cerulean color was blinding.

A frozen second passed, and he realized she was glaring at him fiercely. Her purple eyes narrowed – _purple?_ – and the girl angrily picked a twig out of her hair and flicked it away, the motion somehow accusatory. Every instinct he possessed told him that she knew she looked terrible, and that (more importantly) it was somehow his fault.

Belatedly, he realized that his jaw was hanging open and closed it hastily. He held empty hands up palms out, wishing he had more than a knife. There was more here than met the eye. "Hello there," he said clearly. "I mean you no harm."

At his words her expression wavered just a little, showing something Bevier had not expected to see: pain, maybe even desperation. But then the mask of cold superiority was back up, making him doubt the memory even as it registered. She licked dry lips and tried to speak, but her voice failed her mid-syllable. He saw her shoot a quick glance at the bubbling spring. "Miss," he said calmly, hands still up. "I'll stand over here, agreed?" The knight pointed back down where he came and backed slowly in that direction. She waited until he was a good ten yards away before walking quickly up to the spring. Still watching him, she knelt and drank. Her movements were gracious and controlled, but just a shade too eager. She had to be dehydrated.

She stood swiftly, tapped her nose, and said, "Shyan-pu."

"I'm Bevier."

"Baybi-er?" she said.

"With a V. _Bev_ier."

"Bebi-er," she repeated confidently.

He winced internally, but said, "Close enough. How did you come to this place?"

"Da huo bu jie, baka." Her words rang strangely to his ears.

Bevier blinked at her, nonplussed. "You do not speak Elene? How about Tamul?" he said in that language, then switched again. "Can you understand Styrica?"

She cocked her head, listening to each language, but shook her head. "Li jie Putonghua? Nihongo hanasu? Spiiku Eengurishu?"

Bevier shook his head at each one, increasingly confused. Where was this girl from, that neither of them had even heard of each others' languages? Another thought struck him: this was, he was almost certain, the supposedly demonic influence that had been plaguing travelers on the Lindlair road, the blue-haired thief who had stolen his supplies, and the flash of blue and red that the thieves had seen. Even if she didn't come from some demonic hell-world, which Bevier dismissed after a bare second's thought, she was something a lot more than a lost girl that couldn't communicate.

Bevier had assumed that she was tied to the thieves by the old man's curse, if that's what it was, but such was obviously not the case. His thoughts went immediately to the tiny box secreted away in his pack. That had to be the connection, though he couldn't yet fathom how. He had to get her to come with him somehow.

Aloud, the knight told her, "I'm going back to my party," then gestured back toward the meadow. Pointing at her, he asked, "You come?" Bevier made a couple of herding motions with his hands, feeling silly. She looked amused, head cocked to one side. Pointing to herself and him, she walked two fingers in the air and said, "San bu."

"Bevier and Miss Shanpu san bu, yes." He hopefully shooed her in that direction, but she didn't budge from where she stood. Bevier thought wistfully of Sephrenia's language spell, the one that had instantly allowed Sparhawk to speak Troll. Indeed, any wisdom from her or the Cyrinic preceptor would be very welcome at this point. He needed to get to Coombe and seek advice from wiser heads than his.

Bevier backed up slowly, trying to look friendly and un-intimidating, though this was somewhat difficult considering the obviousness of his armor. He made a "come on" gesture, and finally the girl walked forward a bit. She seemed unwilling to take the lead, however, so he finally began backing down the way he came, trying to keep an eye on her and his footing at the same time.

Shanpu watched him with cool amusement as he backed slowly through the trees. Bevier knew he looked foolish but had the peculiar feeling that if her lost sight of her she would vanish as quickly as she had come. In contrast, her movements were fluid and silent, obviously at home in the wild despite the clunky boots and inappropriate garb. She had no trouble keeping up but still followed him at a good distance, obviously allowing enough freedom to flee should it be necessary.

When they reached the end of the trees she paused, her attention momentarily caught by Delric and the horses. Out of the corner of his eye, Bevier could see him standing uncertainly, bread and cheese forgotten. The manservant, too, had marked Bevier's new companion.

She asked something in a suspicious tone, nodding her head at Delric, and Bevier began, "It's fine, he's a servant." Then he stopped, nonplussed. There was no convenient mime for that, and Bevier was getting a sinking feeling that their conversational impasse was going to be a trend. Again, he thought irritably of the language spell. _Why did I never bother to learn it when I had the chance?_ For lack of a better gesture, he smiled broadly, nodded and gestured her onward, feeling like a shady horse trader and hoping that she understood the general sense of approval. "It's fine," he repeated.

Risking a glance at Delric, Bevier saw the man rub his eyes uncertainly. They were moving closer, and the man could hardly miss the strangeness of her. "Delric," he called, "don't make any sudden movements. She's skittish."

As he spoke, Shanpu halted in her tracks, adopting a ready stance and watching both of them with narrow eyes. She said something in a sharp voice. Bevier put his hands out, showing no weapons, and jerked his chin at Delric, who followed his lead after only a moment's hesitation. There was a second of tense waiting while the girl's bright eyes flickered back and forth between the two men, waiting for them to move. After a moment she moving a little closer, still ready to flee or fight.

"My Lord," said Delric softly as Bevier approached, "Who is this? Why was she in the woods so far from town?"

"This is Miss Shanpu, and unless I'm mistaken, she happens to be our mysterious thief," Bevier responded calmly, still smiling at the girl. There was an unexpected silence at his side, making Bevier turn to check his companion's reaction. Delric was staring at Bevier in disbelief. "Her _hair_, man. Have you ever seen anything like it?"

"Well, no, but- it's just a girl!" Delric protested, gesturing toward her. The girl was watching their discussion with suspicious, uncomprehending eyes. "She can't be more than sixteen!"

"Sixteen or sixty, she's not from around here. I can't follow anything she says." Shanpu had stopped her advance more than dozen paces from them, and Bevier bit his lip, thinking. "We've got to get her to trust us, Delric, before we can figure out what's going on here."

Delric blinked. "Can't you just…" he wiggled his fingers in a poor imitation of Styric magic.

Bevier shook his head ruefully. "I've never heard of a trust spell that wasn't more like befuddlement, and this situation is confusing enough as it is. Not to mention, I'd hate to have to deal with her once it wore off."

"Food?" the servant suggested. "The universal gesture of peace."

"Good as anything, for now," Bevier agreed. Delric retrieved some more jerky and bread from the bags and proffered it in her direction. She didn't move.

Bevier gave her a considering look. It stood to reason that she was as hungry as she had been thirsty earlier. The girls' good looks could not totally hide the shadows of fatigue around her eyes and the thinness of her limbs. Experimentally, he tore the bread in half and motioned to Delric to do the same to the jerky. "She has no reason to trust us, yet," he said, his voice absurdly bright. "We have to break bread with her, or she'll never take it."

Nodding his agreement, Delric tore the jerky into separate pieces. The girl didn't move, but her eyes locked onto the food as the two men combined their offering in a clean cloth and placed it out as an invitation. At Bevier's instruction, Delric sat, unhurried, a pace away from the proffered food. Bevier, after making a brief detour to the saddlebags, also clanked his way into a sitting position an equal distance away from Delric, creating a triangle. The horses watched from behind Delric, mild bemusement in their eyes at these strange human antics.

Watching both of them warily, Shanpu padded forward on silent feet and kneeled in front of the food. She made a graceful bow from her knees and spoke to them in a respectful tone. She watched them eat for a brief moment, presumably to see if they would get convulsions or start foaming from the mouth, and then tore into the simple fare like a wolf in a rabbit hutch.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Bevier felt a little overfull, having eaten twice over, but he reasoned that his gluttony was for a good cause. When she was mostly finished, he asked the question that he had been dying to ask from the beginning. "Now," Bevier said clearly to the girl, "do you recognize this?" He pulled the tiny carved box from where he had hidden it in his tunic and held it out to her.

Shanpu's eyes widened in shock, and she leapt from her sitting position toward him. Startled, Bevier's reflexive grip on the box was the only thing that prevented her from snatching it from his grasp as she bowled him over into the grass. Skidding to a stop behind him and reversing course, she leaped back on him as he tried to struggle upright. It all happened within two heartbeats - Delric had only just gotten to his feet as Shanpu attempted to pry the box from Bevier's hands, shrieking in fury.

She was obviously powerful, but Bevier was well-muscled from many years sweating in eighty pounds of metal. He pushed her off with an ungraceful shove and rolled back upright. But rather than simply falling backward, she executed a fantastic mid-air roll and landed on her feet a few strides away. She began shouting at them, pointing at the box angrily and gesturing toward her face, clothes, the surrounding area, Delric --

Bevier put up a placating hand, the other still clenched around the box. In a level tone, he told Shanpu, "Hold your tongue, you ingrate, you know I can't understand a word you're saying. It's no use shouting. Shh." He put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, which apparently translated to whatever language she used. After a few more sharp comments, she subsided into a chilly glare.

Reluctantly taking his eyes off her, he looked over at Delric, who stood ready despite not knowing what exactly to do. "Get me the biggest map we have, would you? I'm going to try an exchange of information." Tucking the box back inside his tunic for the time being, he did not miss the snarl of frustration on Shanpu's face.

A few seconds of rummaging brought to light a map of Eosia, a crude copy Bevier usually used for reference purposes. He laid the parchment flat on the grass, glad the morning dew had dried. He gestured for her to come closer, and watched her face as comprehension dawned. Still staying as far away as possible from both men, she craned her neck toward the map of the continent.

After a moment she frowned and shook her head, saying something in a defeated tone of voice. _Maybe she was never taught to read a map._ Patiently, Bevier pointed to himself and the surrounding trees, and then to their current position, south of the capital. "_You_ are _here_, Miss Shanpu," he informed her, pointing to the girl, then to the tiny dot that was inscribed **Coombe**. "Where are you _from_?" He made a little walking motion with two fingers over the map, and looked at her questioningly.

She made an irritated noise in her throat and laid a palm flat on the paper. "Bu ran." She shook her head negatively.

"No?" He shook his head in the same way.

"Bu ran," she repeated.

He sat back on his heels a little, thinking. "Daresia?" he suggested. He tapped the very right-hand edge of the map, where Zemoch connected to the other continent, and made a broad outline of it with a finger. "Here?"

"Bu ran, bie chu," she insisted. Biting her lower lip, she frowned at the map for several seconds. Her face brightening, she flipped the paper over with a deft hand and made a happy comment on the blank surface of the other side. Looking up at Bevier, she made a scribbling motion with one hand, clearly asking for a writing tool.

Abashed, Bevier shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't think to bring any ink with me."

She made a face, but then looked around hopefully. Getting up, she bounded over to the stream and called out, "Bevier-san, jin." She pointed to the ground. Confused, the knight stood and trailed along after her. He watched her search the ground for a moment and pick up a stick, then realized that she intended to draw something on the damp, sandy earth of the stream bank. Crouching, she quickly drew a squiggly-bordered half-moon with more squiggly shapes next to it, and pointed inside the bigger shape. "Shanpu gu xiang zhe li." She drew a dotted line to what he supposed was an island, than back to the main shape.

"You… traveled here?" Bevier asked her. He didn't recognize the shapes she was drawing, but that was no surprise, given her strange appearance. The whole situation was frustrating and exhilarating in a way that he hadn't felt for years, puzzling out this strange communication with an even stranger female. He opened his hands wide and gestured outward, then pointed toward the picture. "Bigger? Can you make it bigger?"

She nodded and muttered something. She wiped the picture flat in the sand and started again, and Bevier watched carefully. She started with a huge elongated circle this time, which was information of itself – wherever she came from, it looked like she was educated enough to know quite a bit of geography. She added two blobs on the right edge, connected by a peninsula, then drew a central continent that took up most of the northern part of the circle. Another large continent off to the left crept down into the southern hemisphere, and a huge island hovered south of the largest continent. She added a few more details and islands, and corrected a line here and there.

It was completely like nothing Bevier had ever seen. She seemed very certain of her cartography, though. Bewildered, he looked at it sideways and upside down, but it didn't resemble the world he knew, even one drawn very badly. It was, he was sure, a drawing of the world she knew. _Which isn't this one._ Still absorbed in her task, she drew a line bisecting the oval, pointed to it and fanned herself theatrically. Then she pointed to both the far northern regions and the very southern ocean, wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. _So she has some familiarity with world climates_, _to,_ he thought in a stunned sort of way. _Interesting_.

She redefined the half moon country from her original drawing in the southern part of central continent, across from the little string of islands, and said, "Sichaun sheng, Zhongguo." She tapped it instructively.

"But- how did you get _here_?" His voice was almost plaintive in his own ears, and hearing it shook Bevier out of his shock a little.

She looked at him for a moment blankly. They were both silent for a moment, digesting their information, and Bevier slowly became aware that he was a lot closer than he thought she would have allowed. Her almond-shaped purple eyes were downcast in thought, shaded by thick, blue-black lashes. The vivid blue of her hair seemed less strange to him now, as though knowing that she was not from this world made the difference minor in comparison. _Or maybe_, he thought in amusement, _I'm just glad that's all that's different. She doesn't have horns or a tail, at least. _Suspicion reminded him: _that you can _see...

Bevier remembered the box, and brought it out just enough for her to recognize it before putting it back. "So what does this have to do with it?" he asked her, not really expecting an answer.

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't try to go for it again. Shanpu stood, head bowed, then held up a finger in inspiration. She crouched, hobbled forward, and extended a hand, her soprano lilt suddenly a crone's croak. Straightening, she mimed taking the offering, examining it, opening a lid – then whirled around and around in a fast spin until she fell with an "Oh!", long tresses spilling over her prone form dramatically. Concerned, Bevier leaned forward to offer his assistance, but she sat up with one hand to her forehead, still playacting. She looked around, confused, then stood and peered in both directions with one hand shading her eyes.

She then pointed to the sun, and rotated a finger. "A day," Bevier guessed. She held up two fingers, then held her stomach as if in pain. "Getting hungry, of course," he said sympathetically. Then she did a series of motions that made no sense to him. Seeing his confusion, she stopped and thought.

First pointing to her eyes, she held up four fingers and cried in a deep voice, "Stup!" She mimed holding a weapon, then a person on their knees, pleading. _Stop._

Bevier snapped his fingers. "The bandits, you met them? Did they rob you?" She held up a hand to make him wait, then tiptoed forward a few steps. Then she did something again that he couldn't understand, a sort of hop-skip with hand motions. Then she mimed eating and drinking, rubbing her stomach happily.

"You stole food from them somehow, all right." _Even though they never saw her?_ He wondered uneasily. _I'm not getting something here._ The silence and speed evinced in the theft of his supplies, not to mention the rumors of sorcery in the town, made him uneasily aware that there were more unusual differences between them than just hair color and language.

She made the sun-moving motion again, then held up a finger. Crouching, she ticked off four sets of seven marks in the dirt, then drew a box around it and made two identical boxes beside it. She then looked at him expectantly.

"Three months? That's how long you've been here?" Bevier cringed in sympathy. _That explains her ragged appearance_.

Delric, who had been watching the entire thing from a distance, finally spoke. "What are we gonna do with her, M'Lord?"

Bevier shrugged. "We've got to take her with us, that much is clear. She can't stay out here preying on travelers for survival." He also craved the advice of his elders, as well as the Cyrinic tutor of Styricium.

"Well, if we have a mystery on our hands, it may as well be a mystery that looks like _that_," the man agreed cheerfully. At Bevier's glare, he shrugged apologetically. "Oh, I'll treat her as befits a lady, Sir Bevier, but I'm not _blind_."

_Neither am I_, was on the tip of his tongue. _And that's a problem_.

* * *

**A/N:**

A bizarre cross-over indeed, but I hope it works…

The whole thing, of course, is based on the works of David Eddings and Ramiko Takahashi. Delric and incidental characters are my own creation.

References: Title derived from "Girl, Interrupted" by Susanna Kaysen. Chapter title is a fairly common postcard sentiment, but also an album by Pink Floyd.

When I first started this story, it didn't occur to me how unbelievably aggravating it would be to write characters who are learning a language I have no experience with (Chinese) and a language that was completely made up (Elene). Many, many thanks to indygodusk for all of her suggestions on how to work around it.

Another warning: I do not know Chinese, so don't assume that what Shampoo is saying means anything at all. I did have help from a Chinese-English dictionary but I'm guessing that my Chinese translations are probably at best atrocious. If anyone has any experience with Chinese that would like to correct my bungled attempt at the language, please feel free. At this point I just want it to scan convincingly.

Doing my own research is interesting, to say the least. I happened to run across the entry for Lochaber axes in Wikipedia and found that it's technically a polearm, which is a ludicrously ill-suited weapon for a knight, even a short-handled version. And Eddings never mentions the hook on the reverse, used for pulling cavalry off their horses. If that hook isn't incorporated, it's really more of a voulge than a Lochaber – though that's still an infantry weapon. Crazy.

Let me know what you think!


	3. Technical Difficulties Please Stand By

**Knight, Interrupted**

by katyclismic

A brief note on language: Chinese is italicized, Elene is not. I figure it's better to start now, so everyone will get used to it. :)

**Chapter 3: Technical Difficulties Please Stand By**

Shampoo was finding it hard not to throw her arms around this beautiful man and kiss him senseless. To find such a considerate, intelligent, gorgeous, and above all _sympathetic_ savior after the months of total hell she had been put through nearly had her on the edge of tears any number of times in the last few hours. Someone was finally willing to listen to her, feed her, and generally _not_ act a total lout, apart from the whole not-handing-over-the-box thing. It was almost too good to be true.

She kept that firmly in mind, however, especially since there was another reason she felt less than charitable toward her new acquaintances: Intentionally or not, he had literally dragged her out from her hidey-hole, forcing her to leave the meager comforts of her hidden den and follow the magical lure of the pearl box.

As she had finally realized the day before, Shampoo's connection to the box was physical as well as mystical. When she was first transported to this world, she stuck close to the thieves because they seemed like a good source of plunder while she figured out what was going on. An encounter on the road was discouraged further exploration, too, because the party's guards had shouted and threatened her, apparently afraid of her looks and her abrupt arrival. It didn't seem like a good idea to wander to far into the wilderness alone, and she didn't know if she would find any help beyond the woods anyway. So it seemed logical, even natural, to hover a couple of kilometers away from the thieves, and wait.

In retrospect, of course, she knew that her lack of initiative was somehow grounded in her ties to that damned little box. When Bevier had broken up the thieves' camp and moved them toward the town, Shampoo felt a painful tug on her very essence, demanding that she move in their direction. Within minutes it was almost crippling in its intensity, driving a confused Shampoo to her knees, gasping in pain. She stumbled out of her den and took a few steps, and the tug subsided. She stopped in relief, then cried out as the pain returned again, doubled. Stumbling forward, she grimly realized that something new was afoot in this peculiar enchantment.

It took her a matter of minutes to reach the thieves' camp, and she knew its destruction meant trouble. Another few minutes of tracking, and she discovered the scoundrels were being led by the very man who she had raided earlier that day, the one who looked so very much like a Western knight. Astonished, she sat for only a moment before deciding to free her handy scapegoats, but that had hardly gone well. More wary after the knight's show of strength, she crept behind them as they traveled to the village, and hid herself in the forest just beyond the edge of town. There they stayed until dawn, until Shampoo, shivering and stiff from sleeping on the ground, was once again pulled painfully down the road. She didn't understand - the tug was somehow coming from the knight now, rather than the thieves.

Keeping pace with the galloping horses gave her one of the most intense workouts she had been given in while, for sure. By her calculations, she could be no more than three or four kilometers behind them before the tug on her soul urged her forward. The pain got worse when she fell farther behind, so her leaps from branch to branch grew longer and more outrageous with every mile, even as she used their elasticity to her best advantage. It was exhilarating and terrifying – she didn't know what would happen if she put a foot wrong and her progress stopped. Would that terrible pull be enough to kill her, if they got far enough away? She didn't know. And the trees seemed to be thinning.

By the time Shampoo realized that they had stopped for a rest, she had almost caught up to them, shaking from muscle exhaustion and what felt like a hundred cuts from wayward branches. She was hot, parched and dearly wanted to inflict some serious pain on the person whose silly idea it was to gallop around like that. Watching the two travelers from the surrounding trees, she observed the knight taking off into the trees, conveniently leaving behind his helmet – _head shot?_ - and separating himself from his companion, who was tending to the horses.

Eyes lit with an evil smirk, she followed him through the woods, slowing as he came into view. She halted a ways away, bemused at his playful behavior at the stream. The clearing was pretty, and he seemed to have some appreciation for it. _Okay, so maybe he's not a complete barbarian_, she mused, watching his peaceful meditations. The realization made her perversely furious, though, considering what she'd been through that day, and that was the emotion foremost in her mind when she confronted him that morning.

On further acquaintance, Bevier really didn't seem to be that bad, though. While he was certainly wary of her, that didn't stop him from trying to communicate with her, something nearly heroic compared to the amount of help she'd had so far. When he revealed Great-Grandmother's pearl box, so familiar and unexpected, she knew she had to reevaluate the situation. She hadn't ever seen those damned thieves with it, but the knight must have taken it from them when they were captured. And while he wasn't going to just give it to her, he seemed to be willing to help, and she was willing to take whatever she could get.

After their extended mime session, the knight put her on their third horse and was now leading her to some unknown destination. Of course, for all she knew, it was straight to a jail, or to a priest who would try to exorcise her. She knew the group of bandits she had been attached to certainly thought she was some sort of imp, though that was mostly a perception she herself had cultivated. Bevier seemed more intelligent than that, though.

Bevier kept her horse on a short reign as they traveled, probably to prevent her from bolting with it, but the proximity gave them the chance to work on their communication. Shampoo had missed human interaction a lot more than she thought she would in the last few months. It didn't hurt that the man was really just _stunning_, even if he was a bit older than her. He left his helm bouncing against the saddle, and his black-blue curls waved, lively in the wind. His sparkling blue-grey eyes were intent on her, his animated interest a pleasing change from the last couple of months of non-identity.

Yet it wasn't the kind of interest she was used to, not at all. He seemed friendly, pleasant and totally uninterested in her as a woman. They took turns pointing at things and saying the names in each language, and even when she pointed to her lips and long, bare legs, his friendly good humor never wavered. Peeved, Shampoo found herself making each gesture graceful and languid, and touched his shoulder more often, though it was still encased in armor. Still there was no reaction that she could see.

Shampoo gave herself a good mental thump, thinking, _Of course he's not interested in me. When are the best ones ever interested in me?_ She made a pouty face, frowning at the flicking ears of her horse. _Well,_ _I've spent the last few months deliberately avoiding any sort of interest in myself, so I suppose it's a little more won't hurt. Get a grip, woman. …I'm such an idiot, always drawn towards the ones that _aren't_ interested. ARG. _The guy behind them was a perfect example – he was respectful enough, but the look in his eyes was nothing if not appreciative. And naturally, he wasn't attractive in the slightest, not to mention _old_.

The male customers at the Cat Café made enough comments that she was fairly confidant she could attract almost any man she chose – but that _almost_ still burned a little. That idiot Mousse had finally been dragged back to the tribe last year by his fed-up parents, so there had even been a couple of seriously interested suitors coming by the shop for a while. They were never of the same caliber as Ranma, of course, but it made Ranma's lack of attention less crushing than it used to be. _And now this guy, _ she thought gloomily. _Well, what's the likelihood that a man like Bevier isn't already attached to someone, anyway_? The thought made her want to break something, but in the lack of available porcelain she settled for a dramatic sigh. Bevier turned to look at her, inquisitive, but she waved it away. "_You wouldn't get it, Gorgeous_."

The language lessons eventually moved on to scenery, though Shampoo was sure that she couldn't remember a single word that he had told her in the last hour and doubted the next hour would be any different. In any case, they had very pretty trees, generally similar to those of her world, and the autumn colors brightened up the view. It had been early spring in Japan when Great-Grandmother had given her that cursed box, so the two worlds weren't entirely in sync.

_It could've dumped me here in the middle of winter, for all she knew_, she grumbled to herself. _I can't imagine what she was thinking_. Actually, Shampoo _had_ thought that she knew what her Great-Grandmother was thinking, but it was more along the lines of punishing a wayward granddaughter who 1. failed marry her conqueror in the tribal tradition and 2.refused to leave her new home in Japan. The old lady had threatened to bring Shampoo home by force to face the Amazon counsel, but nothing had ever indicated that Cologne planned to send her great-granddaughter flying off into an unknown world.

It had occurred to Shampoo in the last couple of months that perhaps this was not what Great-Grandmother had expected the spell to do, but the idea of her not having the situation in complete control was hard to believe. Ranma and company had foiled her plans a number of times, to be sure, but the elder knew the old magic like it was her own child.

Shampoo missed her friends in Nerima, she truly did. They bickered a lot, and seeing Ranma and Akane so happy together was a constant niggling reminder of her failure, but after four years there she had been happy and settled in the noodle shop. The availability of sparring partners was convenient, and they had a special bond from their Jusenkyo misadventures, even after the cure was found. And then her grandmother had gone and done _this_.

One way or another, Shampoo was sure that the little box was her ticket home, now that she knew it came to this world with her. Bevier's continued possession of the box was a bit of a problem, though. She was fairly sure she could wheedle it out of him eventually, or simply steal it when he was asleep. She wouldn't mind getting a little close to him, either way. The thought made her perk up a little.

They were walking the horses through farmland, now. A farmhand or two waved from the fields occasionally and Bevier waved back in a friendly way. Shampoo couldn't figure out if he was known personally by the residents, or if his white shirt and armor signified some sort of status, or both. He continued to point out various words as they went, though the slow-moving scenery gave few new words after a while. So, they started on sentences.

After a few tries, Bevier managed to say in Mandarin, "_My name is Bevier_." Clapping her hands, Shanpu gave him some more to work on. He couldn't quite seem to hear some of the consonant distinctions, but his memory for the vocabulary was phenomenal. Resigned, Shampoo told him, "_Oh, don't worry. I'm sure I'll have to learn yours, not you mine. Of _course." He gave her a quietly sympathetic look, apparently hearing the frustration in her voice.

She tappd his arm and gestured toward the horse blanket they had given her as a makeshift saddle. "_I'm getting sore, I need to stand up for a little while_." He didn't seem to get her motion, so she just stood up on the horse as they went, stretching to the sky and shaking out bowed limbs. Then she had to grin at Bevier, who was looking up at her with an expression warring between consternation and astonishment. Standing in the saddle was something she hadn't tried before, but her footing was firm enough. She raised one foot slowly up above her head and smoothly switched to a handstand. Behind the curtain of her falling hair, she could see Bevier's startled expression, and he held his hands out uncertainly like he expected to catch her. She laughed.

It was the first time she had laughed out loud since she had come to this world, and the sudden good feeling almost surprised her. Flipping upright, she stretched her whole body once more before arranging herself lengthwise across the back of the serenely plodding horse, her boots bouncing off its rear – _hocks? Withers?_ _I've never been that great with horse stuff._ _Its butt, anyway._ Riding balanced in such a strange way took a little extra toll on her stomach muscles, but the burn felt good and she didn't think she could take more friction on the inside of her legs just yet. Plus Bevier's expression was really funny.

"_Kite_?" he asked in a concerned tone, one hand still outstretched.

Shampoo blinked at him. _"What?"_

"_Kite_," Bevier repeated. He thought for a second, then fluffed an imaginary pillow and acted like he was sleeping on it blissfully.

Shampoo shook her head, grinning. "_No,_ _sleep_." She outlined a diamond shape and flung it in the air, saying, "_Kite! This is a kite_."

Bevier studied her hands, his face puzzled. _Wait,_ _I never even told him the word for kite_, Shampoo realized. _So how…? _"Say again, please?"

"_Kite_," Bevier repeated – only it wasn't, not quite. Shampoo's eyes widened a bit as understanding dawned. The syllables were very similar, but it was obviously a word in his own language.

He still looked adorably confused, though, so she allowed herself to relax into the sway of the saddle and closed her eyes, feigning slumber. She let a moment pass before her eyes popped open again, and she confirmed in Elene, "Sleep, yes?"

Still slightly puzzled, he nodded. Shampoo snorted quietly to herself as she settled herself more firmly along the horse's spine. _A kite is 'to sleep.' As if this weren't confusing enough. _"_And no, I'm fine. Teach on, O Wise One._"

They plodded onward, giving halting lessons to each other as the shadows lengthened and the sunlight turned pink and gold. The colors were warm, but the brisk wind eventually sent Shampoo into a more normal position on the horse, hiding her bare legs behind the folds of the horse blanket.

After a moment Bevier seemed to notice her shivers, because he called the servant up and had him dig out another blanket from his bags. Rather than handing it to Shampoo, as she was expecting, he shook it out and pulled it around her carefully. _"Thank you,"_ she said awkwardly in Elene. He corrected her pronunciation a little and patted her on the shoulder gently.

Again, Bevier's concern sent tears to her eyes. Would he stay this nice, wherever they were going? But noticing Shampoo's tearful gaze, he snatched his hand back and looked horrified, apologizing as best he could. "_Sorry, sorry. Bad arm?"_

She shook her head firmly, drying her tears with a chilled palm. "_No, no, it's okay_." She spent a few seconds thinking of a way to explain her reaction without words, but concluded that if nothing else he'd attribute it to 'girl stuff' or possibly 'alien stuff', both of which were somewhat true. The girl was silent for a long while, letting Bevier mutter happily to himself in broken Mandarin.

Shampoo was curious what they had planned on doing for camp, since she hadn't seen any promising public accommodations. Still uncertain how she was going to cope with other people in this mostly hostile world, Shampoo felt a little relieved when Bevier halted at sheltered copse of trees to make their camp. Neither man asked her to do anything, so she sat wrapped in her blanket, feeling useless, as they arranged the campfire and horses.

The soup and bread were very welcome. The snack they had given her earlier had taken the edge off her terrible hunger, but the smell of a real meal nearly drove her nuts until it was done. She tried to be circumspect about it, but she knew the knight noticed her impatience. Displaying her weakness irritated her; it was not something she was used to doing, and she felt ashamed that her survival in the wilderness was less than ideal. An Amazon woman is supposed to be able to take whatever is thrown at her, turn it into a weapon and use it to gut her enemies, and she had failed in that. _Well, maybe my metaphor needs a little work_.

As the servant filled the bowls, she remembered that she had yet to be introduced to him. Oversight or social comment? She wasn't sure. Taking a chance, she asked him, "_What's your name? Mine's Shampoo_," and tapped herself on the nose. True to her hunch, he glanced at Bevier before answering, "Delric," followed by a garble of words in Elene.

Taking this as a cue to continue their language lessons, Bevier started pointing at various foods and dinner utensils and she responded in kind, trying to give him a vague idea of how they went together in a sentence. Her head was feeling very full after an entire day of instruction, but she was feeling good about it. Bevier was a better teacher than her Grandmother or her friends had ever been, though of course he was starting from scratch. She had no pidgin or bad habits to overcome here.

There was a pause after they finished eating, and a silence fell over the trio. She watched the two men, who made sporadic conversation with each other as the fire died down. They didn't appear to be talking about her or the box, but of course she couldn't be sure. _Why won't he just give it to me?_ she grumbled to herself, feeling abused. _Why is everyone intent on keeping me here?_ Bevier didn't trust her, that much was clear – he was very careful to keep it out of sight and out of reach. He might not have really believed her story, or mistrusted the thing's magic regardless of her innocence. She couldn't blame him for the latter; she wasn't certain of it herself.

Watching the flames lick up at the stock of firewood, so identical to fires she had made on training trips back home, made her homesick all over again. There were many similarities between her world and this one; the only exceptions she had seen so far were a few unknown furry creatures and insects. Neither had been particular threatening, so she hadn't worried about it. Now she wondered. Had she been transported to this world for a reason? After three stinking months following crooks around in the forest, the idea had been laughable. Now that she was traveling with this Bevier guy, however, things seemed to be moving forward – though to what end she couldn't guess.

There was a hum of conversation from the other two, and they began fussing around with bedding. Uncertain of what she was supposed to do, she waited and watched. Finally three piles of blankets were piled an equal distance from the fire, and she smiled at them in gratitude for sharing. Not that they were suffering much, since they had a ton of bedding to begin with.

Sitting on one pile, she tucked a blanket around her chilled feet and held her hands out to the fire. Bevier began undoing the straps of his armor, with Delric's assistance. Curiously, she watched as smaller pieces came undone, on shins, thighs, arms, then the massive breastplate. Finally he wriggled out of the chainmail shirt and the cotton padding underneath it all, and laid them on top of the stack of metal bits. Bevier rotated his shoulders, stretching.

Shampoo scooted closer to the pile of armor, curious. She ran a hand over the chain mail hauberk and wrinkled her nose at the smell. She couldn't imagine putting all that on every day, or needing to. Obviously this kind of warrior was built more for strength than speed. She glanced up at Bevier with a new respect, only to have her gaze arrested by the expanse of broad chest visible through the shirt he wore underneath. Her eyebrows rose involuntarily. _Wow._

Bevier noticed her appreciative gaze and tugged his shirt closed modestly. _Not even in an embarrassed way,_ she thought, miffed. _Just in a polite way…_ _Never mind,_ she reminded herself sternly, _there's no reason he'd be interested in you. It's stupid to encourage anything, and there's every reason not to. _

Keeping this new thought in mind, she kept her eyes downcast as she shook out her bedclothes into a recognizable bed. She quickly slipped into her nest, eager to escape the nippy air. Mimicking the two men, she tucked the extra edges of bedding underneath herself, adding a little more ground padding and sealing herself up in a cocoon-like bedroll.

Shampoo hummed to herself happily as she snuggled down in her bed. What she had been able to steal for her nest back in the forest hadn't been nearly as good quality, and not even remotely this clean. It made her aware of her own state of unwashed horror, however. Glad she was under the covers now, she made a face. For all of her staring at Bevier, the attraction was very likely not returned, given how filthy and smelly she was. Her dress, one of the few things she had brought with her from home, was sadly in need of repair and a wash. _Maybe wherever he's taking me will have a bath_, she thought dreamily. _That would be amazing. And a hairbrush, ooo._ The pleasant dream of finally being clean sent her off to sleep.

* * *

A/N: Yes, you read that right – Shampoo's curse has been cured at the time of this story. No shapechanging antics for you! …Although I should also warn my readers that may change at a much later date, given the right circumstances and a logical turn of in-story events.

Let me know what you think! I love hearing from people.


	4. What We Have Here is a Failure to Commun

The spiel: italics are Chinese but don't take my 'real' Chinese seriously; thanks to reviewers; characters and worlds belong to their respective authors, David Eddings and Rumiko Takahashi, used with their gracious (albiet tacit) approval. Be warned: this chapter's a long one. Onward! **  
**

**Chapter 4: "What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate"**

Too early the next morning, a hand shook Shampoo awake. Automatically she immobilized it, but then, blinking sleepily at a wide-eyed Delric, released it with an apology. Rubbing her eyes, she threw back the covers and immediately regretted it. The chill in the air seemed to be even more pronounced than yesterday, if only because she had finally gotten warm. Controlling her shivers, she shook out the top blanket and wrapped it around herself, hoping that her body heat still lingered. The rest she folded neatly, as Delric was doing, and handed them to him. He bowed silently in thanks, though he still watched her impassively. She wondered if she had broken some sort of social code, then shrugged it off. It never hurt to appease the help.

Bevier was already dressed and armored. He was in the middle of dousing the campfire. Noticing her new, crude attire, he nodded and said something too fast for her catch. He shook his head at her blank look and said in Chinese, "_Good sleep? Cold."_ She nodded; despite the cold she had slept better than she since she had been dropped in the woods months ago. She felt ready to move, to confront whatever it was that she faced this time.

As it turned out, it was pretty similar to the previous day. Shampoo and Bevier continued their mutual language lessons as they traveled through the countryside. She was heartened by his skill and enthusiasm for learning Mandarin, eager for someone to talk to. It was tough going for her, though, which was no surprise but a definite problem. Though she hoped it wouldn't be necessary, if she stayed very long in this world she would need to learn Elenic before she could function independently of Bevier. She could sense his frustration with lack of language skills, and his frustration fed her own. They were also both having trouble with the nuances of each other's languages, and by lunchtime were reduced to making exaggerated consonants and watching each others' mouths with squinty-eyed concentration. The mostly silent Delric seemed amused by their efforts, although several times Shampoo caught him mouthing words along with Bevier.

The other problem they had was that Shampoo had a tendency to drop Japanese words in the mix, confusing Bevier even more. Her last five years in Nerima had given her plenty of practice in Japanese, and once Mousse and Great-Grandma had straggled off back to the tribe, she had few chances to speak in her native tongue. But she decided pretty quickly that while the Japanese words were easier for him to pronounce the Chinese, it was confusing enough as it was without dropping extra languages in.

_It would be so nice to have a conversation with a friend_, she thought wistfully. _Even if it was just for a while, until I can get my hands on that box_. She was a little disturbed by her own lack of initiative in getting the box from Bevier, actually. Her time in this world had not been so charming that she really wanted to prolong the stay. Yet once she began her pseudo-conversations with Bevier, she found herself not even thinking about getting home for great chunks of time. She was actually _enjoying_ herself.

Not to mention, now that she wasn't in immediate danger of starvation and exposure, she found in herself a sudden curiosity about this new world. There were a lot of strange things that happened to the Nerima crew, and they had met some pretty strange people, but never had she been in or met someone from an entirely different planet. At first she had even thought that she had merely been sent back in time, until she had spied one of the stranger species of forest insect.

Apart from getting the chance to hang out with Mr. Gorgeous, Shampoo found herself wanting to improve her language skills enough to start asking serious questions about the land and people of Elenia. She had a momentary flash of her reception back home, if she came back this very night: "Wow, Shampoo, you were in another world? What was it like?" "Dirty, violent, medieval. Shampoo not see much of it." "Oh. Well, glad to see you then. Can I have a ramen?" _Ugh, how depressing._ This new determination fueled the lessons over lunch, and for once she paid more attention to Bevier's instruction than the food.

While she appreciated the regular meals, the unending offering of dried meat, bread and potato broth was already getting a little tiring. As they mounted and continued down the road, Shampoo eyed the saddlebags and wondered what kind of herbs and spices they might be packing. They might not have any, or they might just not care enough to use them. In the last few months she had found a couple of herbs in the forest similar to those of Earth, and she was willing to bet that she could find more along their route. If there was one thing she could use to win her companions over, it would be cooking.

She stretched and sighed happily in her saddle. This was going far better than she had expected.

.o.

Things were not going as well as Bevier had hoped. Certainly his tutelage in Putonghuan was progressing apace, but the aptitude was not reciprocal in his study partner. He knew, on an intellectual level, that some people simply did not have an ear for languages – Kalten being a pointed example – but actually trying to teach such a person made him feel like beating his head against a handy tree. Shanpu was happy, even eager, to listen to his instruction, and then forgot everything she learned as soon as something distracted her – which was often. He almost had the uncharitable feeling that she was doing it on purpose.

They also wasted most of the morning wrangling a conversation in mime, poor Putonghuan, and poorer Elene that, in essence, amounted to "Do you have any rosemary?" The result of this was also that their progress was stopped again, literally this time, while Delric and Shanpu sniffed and _ahhh_ed over the box of dried herbs Delric had hidden somewhere in the packs. Shanpu tapped the box closed and said in Elene, "Shanpu cook please?" Delric hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

Bevier was so astonished that she had actually put together a sentence that he didn't really think about the underlying danger. Delric, warier of Shanpu's intentions, trotted up next to him after they had started moving again. "Do you think it'll be all right, letting her control our food?" he asked quietly. Bevier looked over at Shanpu, who was looking out over the fields. Her eyes bright and interested, a far cry from the sadness he had seen in them last night.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Bevier responded, equally quietly. "You gave her your own spices, and we know that they're edible. I doubt that she's hiding poison anywhere in that dress." His tone was light, but Delric's eyebrows went up anyway.

"No, not much room, is there?" he said slyly. Bevier looked back at him, polite and expressionless. Delric shrugged and moved back behind the two, smirking anyway. Bevier frowned, moving his stallion forward into a trot. He was going to have a talk with his servant before too much longer. It was hard enough maintaining a polite level of disinterest without leering comments that he was far too inclined to agree with.

For Bevier was, in fact, fully aware of how much he was attracted to the girl. There were a number of reasons for it, he knew. She was exotically beautiful, but Bevier had met any number of beautiful foreign women in the last year, and none of them elicited nearly the same attraction that he felt now. Her dress was revealing, but he had seen more skin on the women of Tamul. Being from another world made her that much more foreign, of course, particularly because of her hair color, but that also implied that she would return and would be thus unavailable. _Perhaps that's not so much of a deterrent as a perk_, he mused. _Do_ _I allow myself to be attracted to this woman – girl, really – because I have no hope with her? _This was a bit of perversity he had never noticed in himself before, and the possibility bothered him. Bevier was not one for needless self-punishment.

Her close proximity in their travels did not help; as a member of the Church Bevier's exposure to women was usually limited, both in town and on the road. If nothing else, he usually favored the company of men in a mixed party, and it was an unusual necessity to keep a woman so close to him for so long. Also, though Shanpu seemed to be able to take care of herself, he recognized that in taking her along and feeding her, both of them were likely to confuse that relationship for something more serious.

He had noticed that Shanpu was attracted to him, but Bevier was used to that. Over a decade in the service of the Church had given him plenty of practice in ignoring much more subtle feminine advances, and having yet another starry-eyed, breathless ingénue hanging on his arm was not extraordinary. Bevier had become less and less inclined to brush her off, however, and when Shanpu's attentions slacked off that morning his relief was intense. Bevier was not used to caring much one way or the other and found the whole experience disquieting.

The intellectual puzzle that she posed was another lure. Bevier was regularly disappointed with the level of intelligence found in the women he encountered, and more intelligent woman always seemed to be unavailable for various reasons. (As a youth, he had scandalously espoused that the universities should allow ladies entry, if only so that conversations with them would not be so boring.) Though she could not yet offer intelligent discourse – and Bevier had no idea if she would, even were she completely fluent in Elenic – the very fact of her existence easily made her more interesting than every woman he had ever met. The problem with this lay in the fact that once that puzzle was 'solved', however that might be, he had no idea whether she would be as interesting to him. There was no sense in tying emotions to fleeting intellectual interest.

These attractions Bevier recognized, and understood. His religion and schooling had trained him to have a logical turn of mind, and dissecting the elements of attraction as he had just done was usually enough to keep him disengaged from any serious attachment. His life's mission lay with the Church, and he was perfectly fulfilled with that charge; attraction for women paled in the light of his love for God.

And yet, this attraction lingered. It defied logic, mocked his attempts at reason, thumbed its nose at his dedication to the Church. It made Bevier struggle, for the first time in years, to keep his friendly façade when she stretched in the morning, or performed one of her crazy stunts that showed the tiny red pantloons she was wearing under her tunic-dress. And there was another reason: Shanpu was far too young for him. Granted, not as bad as some of the other matches he had heard tale of, or even Sparhawk and Ehlana, but it disturbed Bevier that she was probably younger than his own beloved little sister.

He was still mulling over the situation by the time they stopped for the evening, once again camping in an untilled field. Shanpu practically leapt of the horse in her eagerness to be on the ground, and stood stretching while Bevier and Delric were still unpacking. She mutely insisted on taking the cooking utensils and foodstuffs away from Delric, and by the time they had finished getting enough wood for the evening, there was a decent fire, three coneys on a spit, and potatoes roasting in the coals. Bevier exchanged a surprised glance with Delric, both of them carrying an armload of wood.

"You didn't pack any rabbits, did you?" the knight said doubtfully, eyeing the sizzling meat.

"Nay, M'Lord. I didn't even see her move from the campfire, and we weren't that far away."

"Far enough, it seems... the simplest answer would come from just asking her, in truth," Bevier shrugged, trying to be casual. He could tell the manservant was a little wild-eyed.

"Shanpu, where rabbit?" He spoke in simplified Elene and pointed, hoping she would get the gist. She looked up at the two of them and grinned.

"_Food, field_," she told Bevier in her own language, using words he knew. She pointed out to the grass growing around them, made a snatching movement with one hand, then twisted an imaginary head with another. Then in accented Elene, "Whererabbit. Mmmm."

Bevier shrugged at Delric's skeptical expression. "I don't think she _can_ get much more specific than that. It seems she has a knack for catching rabbits." _With her hands_, Bevier finished silently, the prickling of his scalp betraying his unease.

Delric snorted, but said nothing further. By the time the meat was done, both men were willing to put aside their concerns for a taste of the amazingly fragrant meal. Bevier didn't know what she did with the box of spices, but it turned the browned meat into a delicacy fit for lords, and the roasted potatoes were a welcome change from grainy broth. Their noises of enjoyment made Shanpu bounce and clap her hands, and she kept repeating, "Is good? Is good?"

"Is very good," Bevier said with a mouth stuffed with tuber. He swallowed and grinned at her, enjoying her enthusiasm. She flushed becomingly pink at his praise, and bounced back to the pile of supplies next to the tethered horses, chattering in Putonghua. There were cries of glee as she rummaged around in the bags, perhaps planning for the morning.

Bevier smirked at Delric, whose dour predictions of dinner had fallen so flat. The servant shrugged and said, "Beats my cooking, that's for sure. I don't mind being sent to the corner of the kitchen, believe me." He glanced back over at the horses and froze. Alarmed, Bevier followed his line of sight and was startled to see Shanpu gone. Dropping his plate, Bevier rose and scanned the clearing, worried. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

"Where-" Bevier began, and Delric started cursing under his breath.

"Should I saddle your horse, M'Lord?" Delric asked, interrupting his profane litany. "I don't know if we could catch her."

Bevier gritted his teeth. "And follow her where, exactly? Did you see where she went?"

"Nay, she was just gone, M'Lord."

Bevier growled in frustration and indecision, eyes scanning the copse of trees to the east. "Maybe she went to get more rabbits," he said, not really believing it. Bevier crouched next to his horse, scanning the ground for tracks, and Delric reluctantly began saddling the horses for the search that must follow.

"Food!" came a sudden cheery call from behind them. Bevier would have leapt in fright had he not been wearing a six stone weight of armor, though Delric more than made up for it. Both men whirled to see Shanpu skidding to a halt next to them, tilled earth pillowing up in front of her foot as if stopping a great force. She held a handful of apples, and was slightly out of breath.

The looks on their faces made Shanpu's happy smile falter. "Eehto, bad food?" she asked uncertainly, holding out the apples.

Bevier just looked at her for a moment, speechless. Delric strode toward her and gripped her arm angrily, shaking her hard enough that an apple slipped out of her grip. "You stay with us, understand? You" - he poked her - "stay" - he pointed to the ground - "with _us_" - and gestured toward himself with a thumb.

While it was exactly the sort of thing Bevier had been tempted to do, the idea did not seem as wise once he caught sight of Shanpu's expression. One eyebrow arched over flat and angry violet eyes, her mouth thin. She glared first at the hand gripping her arm, then slowly lifted her eyes up to meet Delric's, snarling in a clear, icy tone, "_Ni. **Fang**_." Despite his anger Delric dropped her arm and stood back a pace.

Haughty now, she continued to chatter sharply as she picked up the apple and made her way to the supplies. Bevier could catch none of it, but she pulled out a honeycomb and gestured with it and the apples toward the fire. "Ne?"

"Dessert," Bevier said flatly. "She went to get dessert." Both relief and the ridiculousness of it made him grin suddenly, although neither of his companions seemed to appreciate the humor. Delric and Shanpu stood glaring at each other for a moment longer, until Bevier pointedly turned his back and sat back down.

The other two settled more gingerly around the fire, Delric watching her with distrustful eyes. At her exasperated question, "Good food, yes?" Bevier finally told her that it was, in fact, good to eat. Nodding, she set the honeycomb down on a clean rock, grabbed an apple and, gripping it firmly between both hands, ripped it apart like there was an invisible seam. Astonished, Bevier took a half of the apple and examined it as she did the same with the other two. Delric's gaze narrowed further.

Trying to keep things normal, Bevier started pointing and naming things as she cooked, and her good humor seemed to restore itself as she cooked and talked. First she drizzled honey in the center of the split apples, then bound them back together with a piece of twine. Using a stick, she dug three holes in the ashes, and sat back finally with a pleased look. "_Honey apples_," she made Bevier say in Putonghua. Then she repeated it back in Elene at Bevier's urging.

No more words were exchanged about her sudden disappearance, but Shanpu and Delric watched each other mistrustfully for the rest of the evening, even as they polished off the apples. (Bevier did not fail to notice that she deliberately saved Delric the bruised one.) The knight was somehow left out of the hostilities, to his relief, and her reactions were at least instructive. She did not allow forcible handling of her person, that much was clear. Her speed in arriving, seemingly out of nowhere, bordered on the eerie, but to his relief Bevier's senses told him that there little magical influence in it. _Is this another property of being from her world?_ he wondered. _It does not bode well for her acceptance in this one._

To further complicate things, it also looked like she was one to hold a grudge. The atmosphere the next morning was chilly in both temperature and mood. Fortunately, between Delric's duties and the language lessons, Shanpu did not have much time to interact with him. Relations were strained, but functional. Delric kept an eye on her throughout the day, which she ignored, and Shampoo glared when he got too close, which he disregarded in turn. Delric did not reclaim his cooking duties, though, which Bevier noted with muted amusement.

Their routine continued unchanged for another three days, though the attitude between Delric and Shanpu gradually thawed when neither made any overtly hostile movements. She did disappear several more times, but she came back so consistently, with food in hand, that eventually Delric accepted that she was not trying to run away. Moreover, it altered Bevier's vision of their relationship with the girl, since her demonstrated ability to disappear at will put a damper on the perception of the men as captors. It was hard to imagine catching a girl that could cover a hundred feet in a heartbeat or two.

Even after a few days, Bevier wasn't quite sure what to make of Shanpu. It was too easy to think of her as a brainless adolescent, until he remembered that her presence here was unexplained and undoubtedly significant. Was Shanpu truly what she seemed, or was there some dark machination hidden beneath an innocent façade? The longer he rode beside her, the more he thought it was unlikely. Her giggling happiness was periodically interrupted with bouts of quiet homesickness, which he didn't think could be faked. Bevier thought himself a good judge of character, generally, and his gut inclined to trust her despite her strange abilities.

They passed two inns during that time, but both days Bevier elected to continue until nightfall, since the time that they lost by meandering along during the day could be partially made up by making the days longer. Finally, an inn appeared just before evening fell on the fourth night: a well-kept hostel with full stable and a boisterous main room. Relieved to have proper housing at last, but wary of trouble, Bevier sent Delric around with the horses and escorted Shampoo to the front entrance. A drunken trio staggered out, slurring and laughing raucously. The girl seemed to shrink into the Bevier's shadow as they passed, and only one of them noticed her past Bevier's blinding white surcoat. The hairy drunk merely blinked stupidly at her unusual appearance and moved on, used to hallucinations.

The common room was little more observant, but a few conversations still died when the Church Knight came in with the strange young woman. Bevier ushered Shanpu over to the bar, noting her stiff posture. _If she was a cat, her tail would be lashing furiously_, he thought, somewhat amused by his own visualization.

"Excuse me, good innkeeper," he called. A weedy old man popped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He slowed at the sight of Shanpu, eyes widening, but responded, "What kin I do fer ya, Sir Knight? We're a bit full at the moment, I'm afraid."

"You don't have any rooms left? Or a hayloft, even?" Bevier tone was still hopeful.

"I wouldn't dream of putting a Knight of the Church in a hayloft," the man told Bevier, scandalized. The innkeeper's sharp gaze slid to Shampoo again, and the knight realized belatedly that he shouldn't even have suggested a hayloft with a lady in attendance. _Too much time spent on the road, and not enough observing the proprieties. _"If none of the guests can be convinced, my wife and I'd be happy to give our rooms to you and- er…"

"An orphan we found on the road," Bevier improvised hastily. "My man should be in shortly, too."

"Good, good," the innkeeper burbled, seeming to be relieved by this news. Bevier could understand why, but he found himself bristling at the reaction anyway. He did not like the sidelong looks that the man was giving Shanpu. "Well, we can clear a private room for you to eat, if you like."

"We would," responded Bevier distantly, watching his charge. Shanpu's open curiosity for her surroundings was competing with her irritation at the innkeeper's stares. Bevier could only assume that it would get worse if the rest of the room finally took notice of her.

.o.

As it turned out, there was no need to take the owner's rooms. One of the guests heard mention of a Church Knight and offered his room while they were still eating. Delric excused himself to inspect them, and arrived several minutes later with an odd expression. Bevier looked up at him with some surprise.

"You might want to inspect the quarters for yourself, M'Lord. Our sleeping arrangements may get a little complicated."

Bevier's eyebrows rose, but he excused himself absently. Bevier caught a glimpse of Shanpu's face as he left the room, watching him go with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. He found himself hoping that it was because she was frustrated by the mysterious events around her and not that she was somehow hideously offended by some cultural taboo about getting up from dinner. It was not just that he wanted to keep the situation running smoothly; he had to admit to himself, the thought of being on the receiving end of her displeasure bothered him on a deep, instinctual level.

Bevier tried to brush the idea aside as he mounted the staircase to the upper apartments. The room that had been offered was second from the end, the door slightly ajar. Bevier pushed it open and peered into the dark shadows of the room, badly lit by a single candle near the door. As his sight adjusted, Bevier observed with a sinking heart the single bed and table occupying the tiny room. The logistics of bedding were indeed going to be difficult.

He doubted that any of the other rooms would be any better, and Bevier was reluctant to insist on the adjoining room. The innkeeper would be insulted if Bevier was to sleep in the barn with Delric and Bevier felt distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving a young girl to sleep so far removed from her companions. Yet neither it was feasible for the girl to quarter with one of the two men without a chaperone. It would be questionable enough as it was, with the three of them together, but that was the only solution that Bevier could see. It was going to be a cramped evening.

There was a creak behind him, and he turned to see Shanpu trying to peer around him into the room. She asked curiously, _"Sleep here?"_ Bevier was pleased that he understood her perfectly, and nodded.

Shanpu pushed past him insistently, going straight to the window and throwing open the shutters. She leaned so far out the window she had to balance on one leg, looking around intently, and Bevier was treated to another view of her little red pantaloons. Directing his gaze elsewhere, he told her, "It'll be cramped, but we have a roof over our heads. They even have a decent bath, I hear."

She made a happy-sounding comment and swung back inside, examining the room more closely. She blinked at the single bed, and turned back to Bevier with her arms crossed and her expression a little too level. Language barrier or not, it was an expression Bevier had seen before, usually when a woman is deciding whether she needs to be miffed or outright furious.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture, his own expression apologetic. "Don't worry, Miss Shanpu, it's not quite finished. You get the bed, I'll have one over there, and Delric will be at the foot." He hoped that the accompanying hand gestures were clear enough. She seemed to understand him, for her eyes and mouth relaxed and she surveyed the room a second time. Standing so close to her in the small room, mysterious in half-shadows, abruptly reminded Bevier that their presence together in the room was wildly inappropriate. _What happened to Delric?_

Unconcerned with his preoccupation, Shanpu brushed by him to leave. Bevier was very aware of her closeness, but it was somewhat offset by the wild animal smell that traveled in her wake. A thought flashed through his mind to not inform her of the baths available, but common sense overruled the personal temptation to ward himself from attraction. She presumably hadn't bathed since her arrival, and a good impression might give her an advantage when they arrived in Coombe. She would be under enough suspicion as it was; there was no need to present her as a barbarian.

Delric met them at the head of the stairs, the look of worry on his face quickly replaced with relief. "She _is_ with you. I'm dreadfully sorry, M'Lord, I only stepped out for a moment-"

"Miss Shanpu has a tendency to do her own reconnaissance, it seems." Bevier gave the man a mildly reproving glance, and continued past him down the stairs. "We'll fit, if only just. If you'll take her back to finish her meal, I'll have a talk with the innkeeper."

The innkeeper had only one extra cot to put in the room, so Bevier arranged for a straw pad to be placed on the floor for Delric. The old man did have some good news, though: the bathhouse was ready for whoever wanted it. The innkeeper's wife also had some clean extra clothes she was happily overpaid for, and Bevier thought that with some tucking, they might come close to fitting Shanpu. He shed his plate armor in their room, leaving on only his ring mail and sword, and headed back downstairs with the bulky bundle of woman's clothing.

Finding Shanpu finished with her meal, he told Delric to finish getting the rooms ready and gave Shanpu a hand up from the table. She looked at him blankly, waiting for some sort of explanation, but Bevier only grinned and pushed her gently out of the room, then took the lead down the hallway to the bathing room. She followed him expectantly down the narrow hall, booted feet padding so silently over the creaky floors that several times he turned around the check that she was still there.

Their path ended just past the kitchen at a plain wooden door. Bevier opened it for her with a bow, smiling at her cry of delight at the gigantic tub inside, partially warmed by the backside of the kitchen hearth. Shanpu bounced into the steaming room and peered into the tub, flicking experimentally at the steaming hot water. "_Furo_!" She looked over and grinned at him, using one of her well-remembered phrases: "Thank you, Bevier-san!" Bevier quashed the loopy grin that threatened to break out on his face, and substituted a more modest smile.

Bevier dropped the dress and chemise on the bench with the towels and soap, and made sure that she saw them. Shanpu nodded impatiently, already scrambling to unlace the clunky shoes from her delicate feet, the cleaner part of her calves demarcated clearly by the top of the boot. She tossed the pair contemptuously aside and grabbed the bottom of her dress. The hem had cleared her waist before Bevier realized he was staring like a schoolboy, and that she wasn't going to wait for him to leave. He whirled and hastily shut the door after himself, thinking with a blush, _Praise be for those little red pantaloons. She's almost as uninhibited as Elysoun._ The Tamuli Empress had made the well-traveled Church Knights uneasy with her mode of dress – or lack thereof – and Bevier could only imagine what the reactions would be like here among his insulated countrymen. _I'll have to warn her,_ he decided, looking around for a place to stand guard. _That sort of behavior will land her in a great of trouble, which would really hurt her case with – well, with whatever authority will determine her situation here-_

_When did she become a maiden to be saved, instead of an alien to be investigated?_ The thought caught him up short. Bevier thought back, but no single moment sprang to mind. The mystery of the pearl boxhad yet to be solved, but it seemed separate, remote even, from the job of making Shanpu welcome in his world. _Except she doesn't want to be here, _came a grudging thought. She wanted the box, to go home. His safekeeping of it was the only thing that kept her here, probably. _Who knows what evil might be unleashed in her place, or what might happen to her?_ _I can't let anything happen to it until we know that it's safe._ Reasonable or not, this logic did not quite eliminate the pricking fingers of guilt at holding her captive so. Sighing, Bevier closed his eyes, clearing his mind of doubts. A quiet thump behind the door brought his attention back to what he had meant to do: stand guard.

Conveniently, there was a chair down the hall, so Bevier pulled it up next to the door and settled in for a wait. The innkeeper had confirmed that there was no entry from the bathing room besides the one he guarded now, so he did not have to worry about intruders, or for that matter escapees. He could even hear Shanpu through the door as she bustled around the bathing room. At least this way everyone was accounted for, even if he had to ignore the impropriety of listening to a woman bathe.

Shanpu still hadn't gotten in while he was ruminating by the door, but Bevier did hear her moving the water bucket around. It made him wonder for the first time how different her culture really was. _Does she know _how_ to bathe as we do? _A splash of water hit the floorboards, and after a moment she started humming a strange tune. _What is_ _she doing in there? _Anothersplash. Bevier hoped that the innkeeper had installed good drainage.

Finally, there was a quiet, liquid slosh as Shanpu got in the tub, and then a moan came from behind the door that set all of his skin a-tingle. He took a strangled breath, listening – but, realizing what he was doing, blew it out again in a huff of exasperation. He forced himself to relax in his seat, trying to ignore the bathing noises, his ears highly attuned despite himself. One finger began tapping against his knee.

Maybe he knew exactly where Shanpu was, but listening to her bathe was exquisite torture. Mysterious splashes and happy murmurings set his curiosity aflame, and there were numerous giggles and gasps that made him swallow uncomfortably. One customer came by to use the tub, but he told him in no uncertain terms that it was unavailable, his tone made harsh by his nervousness. After the man went back up the corridor, Bevier gave up, and began to pray. It did not help as much as he wished it to.

After what seemed both an eon and far too soon, there was water dripping on wooden floors and what he presumed was vigorous toweling. Then there was nearly ten minutes of fabric shuffling and muttered irritations, which blessedly gave Bevier enough time to compose himself. After a while, the door cracked open, and Shanpu peeked out of the hallway. Her mouth made a little O of surprise when she saw Bevier standing across the hall, but then the girl grinned at him and bounded out of the room. In seconds she had him in a fierce hug, her eyes twinkling up at him. "Bevier-san! Shanpu so happy, this very good! Thank you!"

Arrested, he stared down at her, feeling the strength of her grip through the chainmail and hearing his heart beating far too loudly beneath it. Belatedly, he remembered to smile at her, and then removed her gently from his person, patting her shoulders gently. "I'm glad you liked it, Miss Shanpu. It feels good to be clean, I know." Her people must also be more physically affectionate than was Arcian custom. He'd have to warn her not to do that in public; people would get entirely the wrong idea.

"Clean," Shanpu agreed, nodding. "Good tunic!" she burbled, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. She made a moue when Bevier corrected her, but repeated _skirt_ gamely. Turning, Shanpu disappeared back in the room for a moment to pick up her dress and boots from the bench, the damp red silk a tiny bundle compared to traditional female garb Bevier had carried in. _I wonder if she's still wearing her underthings under there,_ Bevier thought. After a second's reflection his inappropriate curiosity so dismayed him that he was glad the girl was turned in the opposite direction.

With the layer of dirt removed it was now more obvious how underfed she was. Noticing his regard, Shanpu girlishly pirouetted in front of him and Bevier gave an approving nod. The dress was too large by half, and he rather thought that she had the chemise on backwards, but it would do for now. He could get some of the serving girls to help her before they set out in the morning. With her hair down and the color dampened to a deep violet-black, it made her look more like a Tamul than anything alien. He noted the phenomenon for future circumstances.

Shanpu's face fell ever so slightly at this bland reaction, but as Bevier solemnly offered his arm her face expression lightened. She slipped her hand through the crook in his arm and they made their way back upstairs, the hallways still mostly empty. A lone serving girl scarcely gave Shanpu a second look.

Safely ensconced in their quarters, Bevier watched the girl surreptitiously as he and Delric clarified the plans for the next day. Shanpu pulled her knees up close and leaned against the wall, her temple resting on the grooved wood panels. He guessed she was once again dreaming of home, as her eyes focused on something far beyond the borders of the room, her expression pensive. Flashes of emotion crossed her face occasionally, showing something of her inner thoughts: sadness, irritation, wistfulness, a kind of sardonic humor. Delric eventually ended the stilted conversation with an exasperated look at Bevier's inattention, and the knight picked his way over their gear to Shanpu's side.

Those startling eyes shifted to Bevier as he sat down on the cot across from her. "_Tomorrow go very big town_," he said quietly in Putonghua.

"_Cheng shi_," Shanpu offered. "_Very big town_ _is 'city'_."

He couldn't help smiling at her efforts. She seemed to brighten in turn, sad looks discarded for the moment, and Bevier felt a brief flush of guilt for how much this warmed his heart. _There's no reason to feel guilty about making someone happy_, he scolded himself. _You can enjoy that much safely, fool_.

She sat up more attentively, clearly expecting some instruction, so Bevier started naming things in the room – bed, cot, table, chair, lamp, wall – with her reciprocating in her own language. After a while they halted again for lack of concrete objects. Then inspiration struck. "Delric," Bevier probed, leaning over to the bedroll on the floor. There was a sleepy grunt. "Did you ever pick up any ink and paper?"

"'N th' bag, M'lud."

"Oh, _excellent_." Very much pleased, Bevier stooped over the bags and dug for only a moment before finding some poor-quality rag paper, quill, and a little bottle of ink. He held them up like a trophy to Shanpu, who clapped her hands delightedly.

Pulling the table closer to the bed, he sat a proper distance away from Shanpu and laid out the writing materials. Shanpu watched him closely as he pulled out the ink stopper, dipped the quill and wrote "My name is Bevier" in flowing cursive. He held a finger under the line and read it aloud to her. Understanding sparked in her eyes, and she impatiently reached for the quill. Bevier handed it over.

With part of her tongue poking out of pursed lips, Shanpu scratched the quill experimentally. When only a thin trickle came out, she turned to Bevier, puzzled. "No good?"

"You are not familiar with a quill? But-" Bevier bit down on the questions that she couldn't answer. _But she wrote in the sand well enough. What else could you use besides a quill? _Pushingit aside for the moment, he showed her how to turn it so that the sharp edge was foremost, and inked it again. This time her lines were blobby and hesitant, but apparent.

"Huh," Shanpu said doubtfully. Then, under Bevier's increasingly astonished gaze, she scripted a vertical line of beautifully complex (though still blobby) runes, ones he was absolutely certain came from the same alphabet as the runes on the little pearl box. She imitated his pointing, saying, "_My name is Shanpu._" Bevier didn't answer for a moment, mind still chewing on this unexpected, though not entirely surprising, revelation.

Shanpu looked a little uncertain, watching his reaction. Pushing away this new information for future contemplation, Bevier nodded encouragingly. "Maybe pictures would be more constructive right now," he said, more to himself than anything. Reclaiming the pen, he outlined a small family tree, with his name on the bottom. "Me… mother, father, grandfather…" Realizing that this wouldn't be sufficient, he sketched a small figure with a skirt for his mother, a more broad-shouldered figures for the male line and told her, "Man, woman." She nodded obediently. He continued through the names of his parents and extended family, though he halted at second cousins.

After she successfully mastered his list of family names, Shanpu held a hand out demandingly. Bevier obligingly gave her a sheet of paper. Eyes screwed up in concentration, she drew a little be-skirted stick person for herself, and then traced her mother, father, aunts, grandmother, great-aunts, great-grandmother… Bevier frowned, watching her draw. _She understood my meaning, surely. So why is she only showing the women? And none of the women on the father's side, either._

"_Great-grandmother__ Kuron_," she said, pointing to a woman on the chart. Her eyes met Bevier's, and he was surprised to see a deep anger in them. She said something in Putonghuan, her tone more bitter than anything he had heard her yet say. But then, seeing Bevier's incomprehension, Shanpu made a moue and sketched a rough square – a box, with symbols. Understanding dawned on Bevier, and it was confirmed as she tapped the figure representing Kuron, then the box, and held out her hands in offering. A memory resurfaced of her initial, playacted explanation back on the roads – a hobbled old women, giving Shanpu something that spun her into his world. _Her own grandmother? Surely there has to be another explanation. _If there was one, he didn't think that Shanpu knew of it. Her anger was too deep.

Then Bevier's eyebrows rose, and he blurted, "_Great_-grandmother? You mean she's still alive? That _is_ impressive." Muttering at her look of bafflement, he pointed to the figure of Kuron, then to the box. "Your _great-grandmother_ handed you the box?" Shampoo nodded, still slightly bewildered by his question. Curious now, he hunched over the paper and started scribbling furiously. Four trees: one budding, sun overhead another, one losing leaves, one snow-covered. Under them, a tick mark. "One year," Bevier said, holding up a finger. He tapped his chest, then held up two handfuls of ten, then eight fingers. "I have twenty-eight years. Your great-grandmother, Kuron?"

"Oohhh," she breathed at last, her gaze flicking back down to the seasons in sudden recognition. Shanpu held up ten fingers, then closed and opened them three times in quick succession. Bevier blinked. _Forty _ _years? I can't have seen that properly. Unless they have children when they're nine or ten... what a disturbing idea. _He frowned and handed her the quill instead. "Could you write it for me?"

Shanpu gave Bevier a quizzical look, quill tip hesitating over the parchment. He nodded encouragingly, so she shrugged and started ticking off years underneath his drawing. A row of ten, then two more. _Thirty?_ thought Bevier. _That's even more unlikely_.

But Shanpu wasn't finished. She sketched a square around the first box and repeated the boxes rather than the actual tick marks, as she had before in the sand. Ten more, to be exact, with an additional seventeen tick marks to top it off. Three hundred and seventeen. Bevier sat for a moment, staring. _She meant that hand sign to be multiplication_, the logical part of his mind informed him. _Three tens by ten_. "That's impossible," he said, belatedly realizing it was aloud.

Something turned slightly cold in Bevier's stomach, and he finally looked up at Shanpu. She was fidgiting impatiently with the quill, watching him with the eager innocence of a child. Almost not wanting to hear it, he asked her, "And you, Shanpu? How many years?"

She tapped her nose, silently asking for conformation. Bevier nodded, watching her hands closely as her fingers flashed twenty and one. Relief warred with amazement. Sixteen at most, he had thought. Only the most pampered of nobles could possibly have skin like that at twenty-one. _But of course most of them wouldn't live until three hundred, either. Three _hundred_. Good Lord preserve us._

Mind thoroughly boggled, Bevier focused almost reflexively on the oddity of such a feminine family tree. He took back the quill and made a 'marriage line' directly next to the grandmother and each of the aunts. He asked, "Uncle? Grandfather?" and pointed to the men in his own chart.

Shampoo shrugged, and said, "_Not know_._ Ah-" _She brightened and pointed next to one aunt. "_Uncle Jeru_."

_She doesn't even know most of their names. A society almost completely segregated by gender? But she doesn't seem uncomfortable around men. Perhaps a matrilineal people? _The prospect intrigued Bevier. He had read of such historical curiosities back at the university but had never hoped to actually meet a member of one. He looked down, belatedly realizing that she was drawing again: a 'marriage line' next to her own figure, joined to a man. "Ai ren," she told him. Bevier stared at it, his breath catching. _Married? Surely not! Though it's not like she's too young-_

Then she drew another female on the opposite side of the man, and two more above and below, so that the male was attached to four females. Bevier's denial faded quickly into confusion. Dipping for fresh ink, Shanpu crossed dark, angry lines over the top and bottom connection, then reluctantly through the one between the Shanpu-figure and the man. The last connection stayed. _So – a man married to multiple women, then annulled? Or merely engaged? Or, _he reluctantly realized, _some sort of liaison?_ He didn't know what the norm was for her culture, if people partnered the same way. Shanpu's face was pinched, her lips thin with anger or spite. "Ai ren- Ranma, bao nu hai- Akane, Ukyo, Shanpu, Kodachi," she said, pointing to each of the centrally connected figures.

1Propping her head on one fist, she added curlicues, horns, and a ludicrous moustache on the male, Ranma, then gave the still-attached female a pair of crossed eyes. Bevier bit his lip to keep from smiling, for she was obviously very annoyed. _It has all the makings of a dreadful theatrical farce. She's been unlucky in love, it seems. _The tightness in his chest released a little, making him feel guilty for such relief at another's misfortune.

After a moment, Shanpu sighed and stopped mutilating her competitor. She sketched out a few more figures, not attached by familial lines but with joined hands, and all of them smiling. "_Peng you_," she told him, holding up the page.

"Friends," he told her in return, nodding. Shanpu repeated it quietly, her fingers not quite brushing over the smiling figures. Her eyes were sad again, reminiscent of what she had lost. _She looks like she misses them fiercely_, Bevier thought. _Even more than her family_. He could sympathize with that himself – he regretting leaving his companions after their last quest, far more so than he had ever felt leaving his mother and even his siblings. Familial ties were all well and good, but the bonds of friendship were not easily made and even harder to break.

Feeling somewhat depressed at this unexpected train of thought, Bevier rose and gently pushed the table back against the wall. When he turned again, Shanpu was already curled up on her side away from him, holding her drawing close. Silently, Bevier tamped down the wick and sat on the narrow cot the innkeeper had provided. The canvas bowed under his weight quite a lot, foretelling an uncomfortable night. He sat for a moment longer and studied Shanpu's prone form, wanting to say something heartening but muzzled by his limited vocabulary. _Some sort of physical condolence - a pat on the shoulder or the like?_ But everything he could think of seemed either inappropriate or condescending. He lay back finally, at a loss.

A few minutes passed, and Bevier heard her sniff quietly into the pillow. There was a shaky exhalation, and shortly afterward he saw her reach down and pull the covers up over her shoulders. Another sniff came a minute later, and then she was silent for good. Bevier watched her for a long time through the shadows, but her breathing was even and slow. _Not crying, then. Or at least not much._ Bevier didn't know many women who wouldn't be in tears, if not hysterics, at finding themselves in an unknown and unfriendly place. Her strength of will was impressive.

…_It helps that her curves are impressive, too, _Bevier found himself thinking, probably because he was staring at that arc from waist to hip that is so pronounced when women recline. He shut his eyes, but his cursed imagination reviewed it for him, at length. _What kind of person am I, to think of such things when she's in pain? _he remonstrated himself, scrubbing his face with one hand as if to physically rub the thought out. _Divine One, show me Thy true path,_ Bevier pleaded silently. _Lead me from temptation, secure my heart so that my hand may serve Thee the better. _He stared at the dark shadows of the trees undulating slightly on the moon-gray ceiling, trying to compose his mind for sleep and failing. It made little sense, but even knowing that she would not stay in this world, even if she could, did not quiet his roiling thoughts. _This is not an issue,_ he told himself firmly. _There will be no conflict between interests, even if there could be given other circumstances. It's not even a choice._

So why could he not sleep?

Depressed as she was, Shampoo kept in mind the advice of her mother: for a woman, there are many sorts of weapons. _Feel sorry for me? Then you give me my freakin' box!_

_...o... _

A/N: Cologne in 100ish in the manga, but I used to the anime counting instead mostly for the shock effect on Bevier. Besides, Shampoo's hair varies wildly between the (colored) anime and the (B&W) manga, so I'm taking a few liberties here anyway. Hope y'all can forgive me.

"What we have here is a failure to communicate," is a line from _Cool Hand Luke_.


	5. Xiao Sheng You Liao

See? Now this is what you get when you bother me with comments. Thanks, guys!

The usual: don't sue, not mine; my Chinese is nonexistent, but for clarity's sake is in italics.

**Knight, Interrupted**

by katyclismic

**  
Chapter 5: Xiao Sheng You Liao**  
"The Challenge of Chasing Girls"

The next morning, it took the trio less than a half-day's ride to make their way to the bustling trading city of Coombe. As they came out of the last of the trees, the walled city was visible for the first time. Bevier watched for Shampoo's reaction out of the corner of his eye as they approached, but she seemed more fascinated than afraid. Coombe was one of the largest and busiest cities in Eosia, and folk fresh from the smaller villages tended to goggle when presented with its massive walls and throngs of people. Shampoo was either made of nobler stuff or was familiar with large cities, because she was observing the crush with bright, interested eyes.

The teeming crowd of farmers, traders, soldiers and common folk was waiting to enter the city, siphoned through the three checkpoints that allowed entrance on the north side. The closest gate had a long, ragged line of people queued up, chatting, hawking wares and entertaining themselves as best they could. Heads turned as they approached, and the crowd let the Church Knight and his companions through in good humor.

A curious silence began to build in their wake, however. Whispers traveled faster than they did, and though they still made way, the mood was much less forgiving. Heads in front of them turned, finger pointed, and brief murmurings sputtered to life and stopped just as abruptly. Bevier's neck itched, and he flexed his axe hand nervously. Never had he seen such a reaction from the people of his homeland before, and the ill feeling in his gut made him wish fleetingly that they could have continued their journey through less crowded lands. _We should have covered her hair_, he realized belatedly, glancing at the striking young woman. Moving his mount closer to her palfrey, he was glad of the surcoat and armor that clearly identified him as one of the Cyrinic Order.

Shampoo was obviously aware of the attention, if not the exact reason for it. Her back was ramrod straight, her expression impassive apart from wary side glances into the crowd. She glanced over at Bevier, expression indecipherable, and he found himself nodding at her in reassurance.

At the guard booth even the unobservant city watch had noticed that something unusual was headed their way. Two young guards stared slack-jawed at the oncoming trio, finally snapping to attention as the knight's destrier kicked up clods of earth toward their feet. Bevier nodded cordially. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Good day, Sir Knight. Headin' to the Chapterhouse?" The man's tone was casual, but the naked curiosity in his gaze gave the question added meaning.

Bevier's response was courteous but brief: "Yes, I am. Good day." The guard hesitated, obviously wanting more, but stood aside to let them pass when no obvious reason to halt them presented itself. Bevier moved forward with alacrity, grateful the man wasn't inclined to casual prying. Shanpu and Delric passed through with little comment.

Once inside, Bevier sent his servant off with a quick word to find a piece of cloth for Shanpu's hair while he and the girl idled just off the main causeway. Bevier kept up a muttered commentary of their surroundings, though he doubted she understood. The last thing he wanted was for someone to hear her foreign tongue. They got enough attention even in this less populated quarter than Bevier was comfortable with, so when Delric returned bearing a plain brown scarf Bevier welcomed the man eagerly. "No problems? Excellent. Any news on the street?"

Delric frowned as he handed the scarf to Shanpu. "The people seem a little uneasy, M'Lord, but I couldn't figure why. They almost seem… _depressed_."

Bevier cocked his head for a moment, thinking, but quickly decided that the best course would be to ask at the Chapterhouse. The details were less likely to be muddled from a reliable source. A dark mutter at his side made him look over at his ward. The mechanics of scarf-tying was giving Shanpu a minute's pause; the massive amount of hair that cascaded from Shanpu's shoulders needed to all be tucked away, and she did not seem familiar with the idea of bundling up her tresses. Shanpu made a face as she struggled, and Bevier hoped that she understand the reason for it.

Finally it was done, all the wisps tucked up underneath the edges. Shanpu looked at Bevier doubtfully, touching the fabric with a curious hand. The fashion was that of a farmer's wife, and while her features were still foreign, at least it was a normal sort of foreign. There were enough travelers that came through Coombe that Bevier doubted that she would get a second look. He gave her a reassuring smile and they set off.

He was grateful that this minor alteration of costume seemed to forestall unwanted attention toward the threesome, but he had to admit he didn't like it. The drab color hid the startling blue of her hair, and Bevier found that he missed it flying in the breeze behind them and catching occasionally on his armor. Apart from her violet eyes, which took in the bustling trade being conducted on the cobbled streets with calculated interest, there was little to distinguish Shanpu from any other young, beautiful foreign woman. _Though_, Bevier reflected in self-amusement, _that in itself may turn some heads_.

They turned into the final street leading to the Cyrinic chapterhouse only a short time later. Taking in the massive gates and curtain wall, her mouth slightly agape, Shanpu asked, "_Ni zhu **cheng bao**?_" Her astonished voice carried, and Bevier cringed to see heads turn at the foreign sounds. He cleared his throat quietly, and when she turned to look at him he gave her a warning look. She crossed her eyes at him, a mannerism so like a young child's that it made Bevier blink, but she remained silent.

The traditional Cyrinic greeting welcomed Bevier into Chapterhouse, though the brothers at the gates peered curiously at his companion. Delric and Shanpu were allowed through in short order, and for a moment there was the normal business of dismounting, organizing and exchanging greetings. Bevier felt some of the tension leave his shoulders at the homecoming, so long delayed by his travels.

Reality soon sunk in, however. Shanpu was getting more inquisitive looks in the Cyrinic chapterhouse than she had on the streets, though Bevier suspected it was more because she was a woman than because of her alien features. Bevier ushered her up the stairs to a guest room in the south tower, which had windows looking out over the inner bailey. She stepped into the room hesitantly, then looked back over her shoulder at Bevier. She was smiling, but her eyes were uncertain and her hands gripped the heavy fabric of her skirt.

He guided her to a chair, saying, "You stay here, understand?" He knelt in front of her and took her hands gently in his own. "I've got to talk to my superior about you, so we can figure out what to do. Understand?"

Her gaze was lowered to her lap where his hands engulfed her own. She was perfectly still, apart from the blush spreading across her cheeks. "U- understand," she whispered.

Mentally kicking himself, Bevier patted her hands in what he hoped was a fraternal way and rose. "Stay here, right? I'll come back in a few minutes." He paused in the doorway and switched to Putonghuan. "_You stop here. I go now, later come here. Yes?_"

"_I understand," _she said, regaining some of her composure. She smoothed her skirts and smiled at Bevier, but it was more tremulous than he would have liked. His hand tightened on the doorway as a vision washed over him – taking two strides forward and hugging her tightly to him, caressing that golden cheek and kissing all her fears and doubts away-

Shanpu's eyes widened, perhaps seeing something of it in his expression. Shocked at himself, Bevier turned abruptly and stepped outside the room. He took a quick, deep breath, then leaned in to wave goodbye at Shanpu, not quite meeting her eyes, and pulled the door closed after him. He stood for a moment, one hand still on the door handle, thoughts somehow frantic and stopped dead simultaneously. The _clang_ of sword practice in the courtyard broke his reverie, and he headed down the hall.

Had Bevier been able to see through walls, he would have been quite alarmed to see Shanpu's expression gradually transform from surprise to an extremely smug grin.

.o.

Dagan, the Cyrinic Interim Preceptor elected after Abriel's death, was a wiry man in his fifties. Salt and pepper hair topped from a clean-shaven face made leathery from his years out in the Arcian sun. Bevier met the man in Abriel's old quarters, where a brisk fire made the chill stone walls of castle less severe. The younger knight had changed into the traditional cassock, as had his superior.

Greetings were exchanged, and Dagan poured a glass of wine for Bevier and instructed him to sit. "Feeling better?" he asked Bevier mildly. The word must have been passed that Bevier had spent some time in the chapel before their meeting.

"I do, thank you." Bevier's expression was troubled, however, and it did not go unnoticed. "We've got a bit of a mystery on our hands, Preceptor. You've heard mention of the girl I escorted here?"

"Indeed," Dagan replied, eyebrows raised. "But no one seemed to know whether you plan to turn her over to the Church or marry her." Bevier gave him a level look. Dagan raised his hands in silent defense. "Boys will talk, you know that, Sir Bevier. So tell me," he sat forward in his chair, "what is the story here, my boy?"

Briefly, Bevier summarized the incidents over the last week, including the curious discrepancies he had noticed in Shanpu's behavior. "The communication barrier is still the most frustrating obstacle in this whole affair," he concluded thoughtfully. "I believe we will know a lot more about the situation once we can have a real conversation with her."

Dagan grunted. "I thought you said that she had difficulty with our language."

"Oh, yes," Bevier said wryly. "Difficultly is an understatement. Although," he said thoughtfully, "she seems to understand more than she actually uses. In any case, I've made a great deal of progress in her language, so that may be another avenue of possibility."

A small smile flickered on Dagan's face. "What is that, the fifteenth language you've studied now? Isn't your head getting full?"

Bevier chuckled. "Sixth, actually. It gets easier after the first three, don't worry." He sat back in the wooden chair, looking around at the study in a preoccupied way. "I'm… not certain, exactly, what needs to happen here. Are we supposed to send her home? Or was she brought here for a reason? What are we supposed to _do_ with her?"

Dagan looked troubled, and he sat silent for a moment before answering. "I think that we can agree that the Hand of God has somehow affected this situation?" Bevier nodded in agreement, relieved to hear his suspicions confirmed. "The question now is: what are we to do about it?" Dagan gave him a measured look. "How sure are you that she is not dangerous, Sir Bevier?"

Bevier snorted. "Not sure in the slightest." At Dagan's alarmed expression he gave a dismissive wave. "I don't think she's apt to kill us all in our sleep, if that's what you mean. She can definitely take care of herself, though."

"Isn't she on the small side for physical confrontations?"

"She's fast, Preceptor, faster than anything I've ever seen. Believe me, it makes up for the lack of muscle mass."

Dagan gave a _hhmph_. "Perhaps, then, my question should have been, how sure are you that she is working for the forces of good? From your tale, I gather that she spent a good while preying on honest travelers. It does not make me inclined to trust her."

Bevier hesitated. Instinct told him to defend her, but her actions were indeed a problem. "I think she was mostly trying to survive, Sir Dagan. Granted, she could have found refuge or work at the nearest town, but that presumes that they would be willing to accept such a strange character. Since we have traveled together, she hasn't shown any predilection for violent or unethical behavior."

Dagan grunted, noncommittal. "Nevertheless, I would keep an eye on her, Sir Bevier. If she truly is from another world, even if she's not a mischief-maker then her ways may be very different from ours." At Bevier's rueful nod, Dagan continued, "Getting back to the question at hand, I think it would be best to contact wiser heads than ours. Archprelate Dolmant will want to know about this, I'm sure."

"Granted, but it may be a while unless we can contact Sparhawk or Sephrenia," Bevier told him. "I doubt anything can progress until we can really converse with Miss Shanpu, and we either need Sephrenia's language spell or six months of serious study to do that."

Dagan nodded. "Very well. Rest for a day or two, but you and the girl should head out as soon as possible for Cimmura."

Bevier blinked and was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, Dagan had to strain to hear him. "You don't think that perhaps someone else should accompany the girl from now on? I can teach someone what I've already learned, several people if necessary." Bevier gazed intently at the wine glass in his hands, tracing the etched glass.

Dagan looked at him piercingly. "Why should you, when you have already begun? Does she not trust you?"

"That's not the point," Bevier retorted. "I simply do not think it is wise for me to be in her company for an extended period of time."

There was a short silence when the men simply stared at each other. Then a sly grin slid its way onto Dagan's face. "I think I am beginning to understand."

"Do you?" Bevier replied, his tone low but intense. "She may not even be _human_, Sir Dagan, and she's made it very clear that she wants to go home. Doomed infatuations may be fashionable, but I've never been one for stylish stupidity."

Understanding dawned. "Ah," sighed the Preceptor. "I do apologize, Sir Bevier; that was unworthy of me. I was tickled to see you at last affected by one of the fairer sex and failed to consider the whole situation."

"It would be _this_ one, wouldn't it?" Bevier told him dryly. He let out a sigh, fixing his gaze on the fire.

"Your faith will serve you in this as it has served you so well before, Sir Bevier. You'll also have a proper escort this time, so the proprieties will be preserved." Dagan regarded him intently. "Personal feelings aside, my gut is telling me that this is important – important enough to warrant the attention of the Champion of our Order. You have a duty to follow this through, for I believe it was not mere coincidence that you were the one to bring this strange girl to us."

Skeptically, Bevier commented, "She's certainly different, but Miss Shanpu doesn't seem so significant as all that."

"Ha! How many beings from other worlds have _you_ run across lately?"

"Two," answered Bevier without much thought, "not including Klael's army." At Dagan's exasperated look, Bevier said sheepishly, "All right, maybe it has jaded me a little bit."

"I would say so, yes. Taking care of those other beings took the combined efforts of all four Champions and several armies, as I recall."

"True enough."

.o.

Bevier made his way to his quarters with a lighter step, now that he had some guidance on the situation. The burden was still on his shoulders, but the responsibility felt good to share. Delric had obviously been busy; the suit of armor was polished and hung on the stand, and his Lochaber leaned against the wall. His quarters were sparsely furnished, as befitted a Church Knight, but one indulgence filled a small shelf in one corner: a small collection of leather-bound, musty books that had a tendency to fall apart at the spine.

Bevier ran finger across the top of the collection fondly, then gently snagged a large tome from its place. The old copy of Anojis' _Byrds and Beasts of Eosia _had been bequeathed to him from an old professor of his, one of the few that had encourages his move to the Church. He let it fall open randomly, and looked down at a penciled badger depicted in three different postures. _This will help, I should think._ He folded it closed, coughing a little at the dust, and took up the chalk slate he kept handy.

Presents in hand, Bevier jogged back up to the tower where Shanpu was staying, making his ring mail jingle musically. At the landing, he stopped and caught his breath for a moment – and remanded himself for his self-consciousness. Then Bevier strode down the hall and knocked on her door.

He knocked again when there was no answer. "Shanpu?" he called. "It's Bevier. May I enter?" _She wouldn't know that._ "I come, yes?"

Still there was silence. Perplexed, Bevier cast a look down the hall as if it would provide some immediate answer. It wouldn't be right enter the room without her invitation, particularly if she was somehow unready for visitors. The silence worried him, though – what if something was wrong? He couldn't have been gone for longer than an hour. There would be no females nearby, either, not in the Cyrinic Chapterhouse. He hated the thought of wasting the time to go find a respectable woman to investigate. He knocked one last time. "Is everything all right in there?"

The lack of answer made the decision for him; Bevier reluctantly put a hand on the door handle and pushed the door open a crack. "Shanpu? It's Bevier," he announced himself. "Are you awake?" Silence greeted him, so he finally poked his head in, keeping his eyes averted. "Shanpu?"

Nothing moved, and the bed was unoccupied. _She's gone_. Dismay washed over Bevier. _What could have happened? Did she just go off again, of her own free will, or was it something more sinister?_ _God, please, watch over her. _He dropped his things on the table and hurried back down the stairs, nearly running down a novice.

"Sorry, sorry - did you see a girl go by earlier?" The boy shook his head mutely and Bevier continued down the stairs two at a time. He skidded to a halt at the ground floor, not caring about the consternation of the knights who were gathered there talking. None of them had seen her either. Maybe she didn't leave by the stairs– but what else was there? _The roof, _he realizedbelatedly. Turning, he went back up the stairs, passing the confused novice again, up six flights to the top of the keep.

A cursory view of the battlements told Bevier all he needed to know. There were two of his brothers on watch, however, and his hopes rose; they had a decent view of the whole Chapterhouse from here. "Greetings, Sir Garin, Sir Pavial. Have you seen a girl running around anywhere? She's gone from her room."

Sir Garin's welcoming smile faded a little. "Sorry, Sir Bevier, nothing of that sort. We're glad to have you back, by the way."

"Thanks," Bevier responded distractedly. "Did you see anything unusual at _all_?"

"Bird or something," shrugged Sir Pavial. "Flew off over the rooftops a while ago."

Bevier groaned to himself. "That had to have been her."

The older knight shook his head. "Couldn't a been-"

But Bevier was already gone, the door thumping behind him. The two knights on watch exchanged bemused glances. Curious, they watched for Bevier as he emerged down below, his robe discarded somewhere on the stairs, and called for a horse. A small group gathered around him, listening as he mounted. The champion trotted out of the castle gate a second later and the remaining group milled around for a moment, then dispersed in several directions.

"Strange," rumbled Sir Pavial.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" mused Sir Garin. "I'd trade my good tunic to hear _this_ story, once he gets back." His companion grunted an affirmative.

.o.

Upwards of an hour later, Bevier was still looking – and carefully reigning in judgment until he knew whether he needed to turn the wayward wench over his knee and swat her a good one, or start an investigation into her disappearance that would be primarily conducted with lengths of pointed metal.

At last, when Bevier started asking questions in the trade quarter he found someone who had seen the 'short foreign girl'. Several wary merchants informed the looming knight that yes, she had come by and no, they didn't know exactly where she went. It seemed that she wandered the length of the street, still in her peasant garb, only drawing attention to herself when she tried to speak. At the end of the row, however, one merchant gave a story that made Bevier pale.

"Oh, yes, that's something I couldn't forget," the fat spice seller told Bevier. "That hair! Well, that scarf she was wearing got pulled off by some boys, and did that make everyone stare! Don't see hues like that every day. Even on clothes, yeh? She started to run away, but some of the castle guard stopped to question her. She started cursing in some foreign tongue, and the guard, well, they took exception to that. Can't blame 'em."

"Did she go with them?" Bevier asked urgently.

"Go with them? I suppose. Not like she had much choice, although I have to say, she sure acted like she did. Thought about the order for a good minute before she started walkin', I wasn't surprised when they were not too pleased about that. The look she gave 'em when they prodded her though!" The man gave a nervous chuckle. "Ya coulda roasted a hen over that glare."

Bevier thanked the merchant, and quietly thanked God for a lead at last, even one that he wasn't happy to hear. He mounted, getting ready to ride for the castle, when another Cyrinic novice rode up, looking relieved. "Sir Bevier! There's been a message for you," the lad told Bevier, handing him a square of parchment.

Bevier rapidly scanned the lines within, his heart sinking at their terse content. _Sir Bevier_, it read, _the girl was captured and taken to the castle._ _The chancellor has summoned you, as your name is the only intelligible thing they have been able to get from her. Step lightly, Markova has a hand in this. –Dagan _Bevier crumpled the scrap of parchment in one fist, needing some immediate outlet for his fury. _Markova._

The Patriarch had retreated in seemingly quiet contemplation after the armed, failed, and quite public attempt to put Annias on the throne two years ago. Markova's complicity in the affair was not enough to oust him from his position, though the man's influence and fortune had dwindled noticeably after Dolmant's election. Having such an easily-bought man not only as a member of the Church, but one of the _leaders_, had always rubbed Bevier the wrong way. _Perhaps now is the time to correct that_, he thought grimly. Ignoring his instincts, which told him to gallop to the castle and demand Shanpu's release, he directed the horse back to the Chapterhouse to pick up his equipment. The reminder of his official status as the Cyrinic Champion would not go amiss in the court of Coombe, he reasoned. Old Baron Lukas was a devout man.

The brothers at the gate them him pass without the traditional greeting, and Bevier realized as he dismounted in the courtyard that the news had spread fast. Concerned faces peered out all around the bailey, from stables to second story windows. Dagan intercepted Bevier on the stairs. "You got the message, I take it? Good. We need to get her back in our care as soon as possible."

Bevier gave him an assessing look. "You sound overly cautious, Preceptor. Markova isn't likely to offer me any favors, but is there something you've failed to mention?" He pushed past the entrance to his room and immediately began strapping on his armor.

"The situation at the palace has changed drastically since you left, Sir Bevier. Although I'm surprised you hadn't heard of Kadal's death, blessings on him, even coming back from Daresia."

"Kadal?" Bevier paused in surprise, one greave only half fastened. "The Baron's heir? So that makes, what, that lackwit nephew the new heir?"

Dagan's brows shot upwards. "What, you've not heard even that? Baron Lukas died over six months ago, Sir Bevier. 'That lackwit nephew' isn't just the heir, he's the new Baron of Coombe."

Bevier stared at the grey-haired Preceptor for a moment, mental gears freewheeling. "May God have mercy," the knight breathed. For whose sake, he did not specify. "What happened?"

"Lukas, God save him, was an old, old man. This last winter was a rough one on him, and he caught an ague that lingered and eventually took him. As for Kadal, though, that was a bad business." Bevier, finished with his armor, gave him a prodding look. Dagan went on heavily, "He went on a short hunting jaunt, and there was an accident – one of his lords caught him in the arm with an arrow. That wouldn't have been enough to fell a man in his prime, normally." Dagan scowled. "But the physician somehow didn't see the infection until it was too late. They tried to take off the arm, but he was already weakened, and…" Dagan made a tipping gesture with one hand, as if sand were escaping.

"_Somehow_, indeed" said Bevier grimly. He snatched up the Lochaber and strode out the door, the Preceptor following close behind. "What was the nephew's name – Kirial? He's surely not fit to rule by himself, is he?"

"Kiarl. He brought a chancellor from his estate, called Hursa, and an advisor of his mother's, called Jupta. They're related somehow, we've heard. It would be, ah, prudent not to put much trust in them. And of course you know of Markova."

Bevier's face was grim. "I do. Is he a kept man again, or has he gone so far as to orchestrate the plotting this time?"

"We haven't got any information one way or the other. All we've been able to discover is that he's in very thick with these two new advisors and seems to have, ah, improved his fortunes somewhat."

Bevier gripped the handle of his beloved axe in fury, wishing for something to demolish. Markova hadn't learned his lesson, it seemed. "Are these advisors as inclined as Markova to do the Order mischief?" His destrier, Bevier was glad to see, was saddled and waiting in the courtyard.

"Possibly even more so. Baron Kiarl has developed a distaste for our 'meddling' in his more outrageous proclamations, and we're fairly certain that both the distaste and the proclamations were direct inventions of his councilors. The boy is a powerful tool." Dagan's face was grim, his jaw set. As Bevier heaved himself atop the saddle, the Interim Preceptor warned, "We don't know yet what they're after, though. There is much of the mysterious in this situation, Sir Bevier. Please watch yourself, and do _try_ not to behead anyone important."

The ensuing flash of teeth possibly could have been called a smile by someone who did not know Bevier. "Never fear, Preceptor. I believe I can deal with another mystery without parting too many necks." _Unless they've hurt her_, he almost continued. After a second's consideration, Bevier decided that while this qualification was perfectly reasonable, it would not do to clutter the conversation with non-essentials.

"God speed to you then, son," Dagan said formally. The Preceptor clasped Bevier's hand. "Bring her back safely, if it is at all possible."

"I shall. Possibilities are a moot point." Bevier's tone was dark, and the comment was not entirely directed at his superior.

.o.

The tree-lined boulevard that led to the palace was one of the broader (and cleaner) streets in Coombe, but in the Arcian fashion it still twisted and narrowed at odd intervals, giving defenders sufficient space to wreak havoc on possible invaders. Bevier went as fast as he dared in the busy streets, alternating between a canter and an impatient trot. The long shadows cast by the trees and buildings were interrupted by blinding, golden shafts of sunset that snuck through the alleys and avenues to fall on the sandstone cobbles under his mount's hooves. It was getting late, and Shanpu had been at the palace for perhaps three hours. _If there was ever a time someone needs Your protection, it is now, _he pleaded silently. _I am your sword, You are my shield. Let it shelter her as well._

His prayer echoed peculiarly, most unlike the usual divine entreaty cast out into a non-answering void. The words seemed to hover in his mind, shining and resonant, crystallized somehow from plea to diamond certainty. _I am His sword, He is my shield. It will shelter her. _Bevier's eyes lit up, delighted. Few and far between were such answers provided. He sent another prayer winging upward, one of gratitude, and urged his mount to greater speed.

The palace gates stood tall and well-repaired, guarded by two clean-shaven men in the baronial livery. Bevier could see the their eyes widen beneath their helmets as he cantered up and, in a fit of childishness, reigned in only when he was nearly on top of them. "I believe I'm expected," he called to them.

"Aye," one said simply. He was taller than his companion, but just as burly, and his accent had a tinge of the northern districts. "Need you directions?"

"Unless they've moved the throne room, no."

The two guards exchanged glances, something Bevier noted with wary interest. _Perhaps they did move it?_ Then the shorter man turned and called for the seneschal, which echoed through the courtyard as the message was passed. They let him by, and Bevier trotted into the grounds and dismounted. Axe in hand, he set off in the general direction of the keep, knowing that the seneschal would catch up.

Sure enough, a round little man intercepted him on the ground floor, puffing and slightly red from the run. His curly dark hair was thinning and he was pale from too many days indoors, but his brown eyes were bright with intelligence. "Sir Bevier!" he panted. "So glad they found you... If you'll just come… this way. The baron's staff is waiting for you in a private room. Oh, beg your lordship's pardon, my name is Faric," he introduced himself hurriedly.

Bevier regarded him curiously. "What happened to Hwatha? The old seneschal," he qualified, seeing the man's blank look. _Curious._

"I take it he retired with the old Baron's death," the little man shrugged. "I was brought from Baron Kiarl's estate. Here we are," he said finally, ushering Bevier through the large wooden doors of a receiving room. The little man announced Bevier formally, giving him a chance to observe the interior.

It was well-lit and well-furnished, with plush Cammorian rugs and dark wood paneling. Two desks sat exactly opposite one another in the room, both piled high with missives and reports. One desk was occupied by a bland man of middle age, his hair of mop of brown curls; he was introduced as the new chancellor, Hursa. The other, a muscular fellow with close-cropped hair, was leaning against the window sill, taking advantage of the late afternoon light to read lengthy report of some kind. Though Faric introduced him as the advisor, Jupta, he had more of the look of a fighter. He glanced up as Bevier entered but returned to his reading, disinterested.

Hursa sat up as Bevier drew close, but did not stand. He gave Bevier a polite smile that did not reach hazel eyes, and greeted him, "Ah, Sir Bevier. Good of you to come. Please, take a seat." Bevier glanced at the plush cushion – nearly a footstool - in front of the desk, carefully designed to make the seated look as ridiculous as possible, and decided to remain standing. "No? Well, as you please. I take it you've heard of our little, ahah, problem." The man gave Bevier a harried smile, as insincere as the first.

The phrasing made Bevier hesitate for a moment. _She's not your problem, she's mine._ "Indeed, the message just reached me. I trust nothing is amiss?"

"Just a few, ahah, technicalities that should be easily solved. We couldn't get a coherent word out of her, except for your name, Sir Bevier. Pray tell, what language is that exactly?" Hursa took up a quill and held it over a new sheet of paper, eyes expectant and calculating. "Some Rendor dialect, I think?"

"_Rendor_?" Bevier repeated in astonishment. _Is this man a fool?_ "No. I've been studying her language and I don't think it's one that we've ever come in contact with." _Or ever will again, in all likelihood._

"That's interesting. My scholars seem to think otherwise, but then, perhaps you are right after all." The doubtful, feigned acquiescence made Bevier's skin prickle uneasily. "We must keep careful watch on such things, I'm sure you'll agree."

"_Such things_ as what, exactly?"

"Well, the Rendorish threat, obviously. Did you know that they are starting to band together now? It's quite shocking." Hursa leaned forward as he said this, as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip to a friend. "We hear that they even have weapons this time."

_Do rocks count?_ "That's odd, I hadn't heard anything of the sort," Bevier replied, wondering where this strange tangent was leading.

"My dear Sir Bevier, you _have_ been in Daresia. Is it any wonder? Well, you are now updated on the situation, so I'm sure you'll agree that we have to take precautions, being the trade center of the nation as we are. We must think of our families, after all, hmm?" The advisor gave another little chuckle, presumably at some witticism he thought he had made. The man's creepily false expressions of good intentions set Bevier's teeth on edge. "So she'll be staying here for the duration."

"She-?" Bevier blinked. "You mean Miss _Shanpu_? She's not in any danger. What do you think you need to keep -"

"No, no," Hursa cut Bevier off with an apologetic wave. "I'm dreadfully sorry, you misunderstood me. I meant to say that we must keep her in custody until we can ascertain her intentions here."

There was a moment of blank astonishment, and then Bevier asked incredulously, "You believe that _a little girl_ is leading an invasion of Arcium?"

Hursa laughed again. "Oh dear, no. Or at least, not really. We just think that it's safer all round if we do some checking first. You never know, do you?" He picked up the quill again. "So what language did you say it was again?"

"I didn't," Bevier snapped. "This is asinine. Even if she _could_ talk to these conspirators you seem to be envisioning, she hasn't. She's been in my presence for the last week, and will remain so indefinitely." At Hursa's skeptical look Bevier gripped his axe in frustration. "You have my word as a Church Knight. If you'll take me to her-"

"No, I think not," cut in Hursa smoothly. "We still need to gather all the information we can. You have _my_ word that she will be properly taken of."

"Where _is_ she?"Bevier growled, his temper finally frayed beyond stability. His knuckles were white and beginning to creak ominously around the haft of his Lochaber.

Hursa seemed unaware of this. "She's safe, is all you need to know," he told Bevier, his fidgeting hands tidying some loose papers.

Remembering Dagan's advice, Bevier quite deliberately released his axe and instead gripped the little pest by his neck. Hursa went pale, eyes bulging a little as they flickered between Bevier and the man by the window. A sudden movement in Bevier's periphery belatedly reminded him that there was another person to consider, but just as the thought registered a cold steel blade pressed against Bevier's neck. "Let go," came a cold instruction.

Bevier released Hursa and edged carefully away from the blade. The steely-eyed Jupta relaxed his stance, but the bastard sword he held was unwavering. Bevier had not seen the weapon earlier, as the man had apparently kept it between the wall and himself as he stood. The military look was real, it seemed. Finally the 'advisor' spoke, "Patience is a virtue, Sir Bevier. Remember that before you threaten my cousin again." His tone was low but crisp, an understated officer's bark. Bevier held his gaze for a moment, recognizing the lethal chill of a trained fighter. This was a man to be wary of.

"This is far from over, gentlemen," Bevier said softly, meeting each of their gazes in turn and burning the memory into his mind for posterity: one brown and calculating, the other gray and cold. "Count on it."

* * *

Dun dun _dun_… 

A/N: This chapter title is actually a movie in Cantonese, but I thought it was weirdly appropriate.


	6. Sister Act

**Chapter 6**

** "Sister Act"**

by katyclismic

[standard disclaimers apply

_Maybe coming along to the castle was a mistake after all_, Shampoo mused as she lay on her cell cot. _Breaking the windows definitely was. I don't think they liked that_. In fact, there were a whole slew of things that she was coming to regret, now that she had a chance to reflect. Choose your battles wisely, Great-Grandmother always said. _Well, it's a nice thought when you're not angry._ _Ai ya, did I get angry. _She grinned at the memory, relishing the bumps and bruises on the warriors, the broken glass and wood. _That's what happens when you deny an Amazon her wishes!_

They had first tried to lock her in a nicer place – cells for rich and important folk, she guessed - and when her insistence at getting back to Bevier had spurred increasingly loud and expensive crashes, a couple of guards had taken steps to restrain her. It had not gone well for them. Shampoo smirked again, stretching achy limbs. She hadn't dealt anyone a good thumping in far too long. Granted, being stuck in a horrible little dungeon cell after being overwhelmed by a dozen or more soldiers, who were none too gentle with her person, put a distinct downer on her enjoyment of the moment.

The second wave of guards were _seriously_ annoyed, and in full armor to boot. She wasn't used to that sort of protection, which she assured herself was the only reason that they had managed to get a hold of her at all. One Amazon was worth a dozen fighting men, normally. _Perhaps I am a _teensy_ bit out of practice._ She estimated that three would have cracked ribs, and there were plenty of concussions to go round. Shampoo herself wasn't that badly off, considering. She would have plenty of bruises, but no damage that would affect her ability to defend herself.

The remaining soldiers had managed to hog-tie her and toss her in this far smellier cell, which she was definitely beginning to regret. Having rattled the window bars and cell door to no effect, she had tried simply smashing her way through the wall. This technique was always pretty effective back in Japan, but the walls here were two feet thick and _stone_. Shampoo flexed her throbbing hand, grimacing. Making only a slight dent in the wall had scraped her hand bloody, and she wasn't about to try _that_ again. _Why, why did I never learn the Breaking Point technique? AGH. …Because you didn't want to get all bruised and ugly, _she reminded herself. _And you thought you'd always have your bonbori, remember?__Hah._ _Oops._

Adding to the general grottiness of the dungeon, the guards had come across the brilliant idea of taunting her from a distance, after the first two had their noses broken for getting too close. She didn't know if the idiots realized that she couldn't understand them, but the tone was unmistakable. She relaxed as much as she could on the narrow cot, ignoring them –until a chunk of brown glop splattered against the stone just above her face. Shampoo jerked away in disgust. Slowly, she turned to look at the grinning guards. _Someone is going to pay for this, _she thought grimly.

She turned the cot up on its side and huddled behind it for what minimal protection it gave from being pelted with rancid orange peels and worse. They continued to land against the canvas with sick _thwuck_ing sounds, and worst of all, it was _erratic_. If there was any sort of rhythm, Shampoo probably could have concentrated enough of her fighting chi to do some damage, either to the walls or to her captors. But the long pauses and sudden peltings of debris continually broke her concentration. _A better warrior wouldn't care_, she thought glumly. _I _am_ out of practice_. She also had doubts about revealing the extent of her power, but it seemed like less and less of a reason as the assault continued over the next hour.

Relief finally came from an unexpected source. Shampoo had vague hopes of Bevier charging in to save her, or possibly some civil servant to come and apologize for the mix-up, but instead she got a woman in a black gown. The lady swept into the hallway holding her skirts high off the grimy floor, snapping orders to the suddenly sheepish guards. Shampoo poked her head out from the behind the canvas cautiously and eyed this possible savior. She was probably in her fifties, covered from the neck down in an excessively severe black dress with an equally severe black head scarf that covered any wisp of hair and trailed to the waist. The effect was unfortunate, because the woman's pale features looked washed out, and her ears stuck out in front of the scarf like twin seashells.

The guard was telling her something with exaggerated sweeps of his arms, but she did not appear to be listening. The woman turned to look at Shampoo, her pale eyes boring into Shampoo's own. Shampoo squeaked and retreated behind the cot. There was an irrational, burning hatred there that she hadn't seen in a long time, not since the challenges had tapered off in Nerima. Pink and Link had that sort of look, and Pantyhose Taro. _Creepy_.

There was a jangling of keys at the cell door, and Shampoo realized that she was going to have to face the woman. Brushing off her skirts as best she could, Shampoo stood with one hand on the upturned cot leg. The woman was still in the corridor, waiting, and though the hatred in her eyes was gone, her gaze was imperious and cold. One of the guards stood warily next to the open cell door, giving Shampoo a clear path to leave.

Shampoo's steps slowed as she passed close to the first guard. _Would it be better_, she wondered, _to take his spleen now? Or would the woman lock me back up?_ _Maybe later_, she decided as she took a good, long look at the man's stony face. "_I'll remember you_," she warned him, and stepped through. The other guard was less stoic, and as she stepped closer he flinched visibly. "_You, too_, _swine,_" Shampoo hissed, poking him in the breastplate.

There was a sharp word from the woman, and Shampoo felt a vise-like pinch take a hold of her ear. "Ow!" she yelped, ruining her threatening stance. "Ow ow ow _ow_." The guards' eyes were wide as they watched the woman haul Shampoo down the corridor, the girl still protesting, "_I wasn't doing anything!_"

The woman's grip fell away as they reached the stairs, and Shampoo hurried after her. _Maybe she's the Elder; she obviously has some sort of authority. She certainly has a grip like Great-Grandmother. _Shampoo grimaced and rubbed her ear, then dropped her hand hurriedly when the older woman turned to look at her. She said something in Elene which Shampoo assumed was something like "Hurry up, girl." Shampoo crossed her eyes at the woman's back but followed obediently.

After several flights of stairs and a bewildering journey through echoing halls, the woman finally slowed next to a set of ornate wooden doors. She looked Shampoo up and down doubtfully. _Do I really look that bad?_ Shampoo double-checked herself, running her uninjured hand through her hair and immediately finding something gooey. "_Oh, ick_," she grimaced, flinging it off her hand. The other woman's eyes froze on the goop that splattered against the stone, then rose to stare at Shampoo. Shampoo started to blush. _Wipe it on your skirts next time_, she noted to herself.

The woman pushed the doors open to reveal an extremely feminine sitting room. Elegant wingback chairs sat in front of large cross-stitch hoops; pink puffy cushions were covered with lacy doilies; dried flowers adorned every possible surface. The resulting musty pollen overload made Shampoo sneeze twice. This, too, seemed to displease the matron, whose eyes were still cold as a Tibetan mountaintop and twice as flinty.

The woman gestured toward herself and said clearly, "My name is Lady Dorsai." Shampoo couldn't understand the next few words, but the phrase "stay here" was clear enough. Shampoo began to bow and introduce herself in return, but the Elder turned and exited the room before she could utter the first syllable. The door shut behind her with a silent rush of air.

Floored by this discourtesy, Shampoo stared after her for another minute before deciding that she had been left alone for the time being. The girl stood for a moment, listening for other movement, but there was nothing. She blew her bangs out of her eyes – it had been months since they had been near a pair of scissors - tapped her toes impatiently, then decided it couldn't harm anything to take a look around.

She turned to look at the room, examining the numerous displays of delicate glasswork and pottery on the shelves. One of the curio cabinets held a pair of portraits depicting a young man with golden hair and an older gentlemen with a great deal of medals on his chest. There were also a few books hidden amid the bric-a-brac. She picked up the one nearest to her, a thin volume tucked between a vase of dried purple flowers and a timepiece, and cracked it open. The spidery writing inside looked a lot like Bevier's, although none of the words were recognizable. She set the volume aside and ran a finger over the neat rows of embroidery in front of the chair. "_Someone with more patience than me_," she muttered to herself.

The wooden wall paneling was wonderfully carved around the edges of the room. Stepping closer, she leaned in to see the details and, after a second, let out a snort. There were minuscule soldiers marching on a tiny city, everything from flags to horses painstakingly defined in oak. Knights exchanging blows, pikemen holding the flank, war machines flinging stones at battlements; all marched their way down the wooden edging in a bizarre mix of genteel and militaristic décor. _How long would take to so something like this?_ she wondered. Curious, she traced a finger down the line of pikes and felt her finger catch.

Looking closer, she saw that one of the pikes, perhaps half as wide as a toothpick, was not a continuous part of the carving; it was set in a socket. Shampoo pulled at it with one finger and winced as it snapped into a horizontal position. _I hope that's fixable_. A sudden chill wind make her flinch, thinking that Lady Dorsai had returned.. Shampoo turned, sheepish, but it was not the hallway door that had opened.

Instead, a section of the wall had swung open so silently that she had not heard it. Eyebrows raised, Shampoo leaned over and tried to see into the darkness beyond it, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She stepped around a chair and leaned over a table to lean into the opening, but she still couldn't see anything. The lamplight from the room showed perhaps ten feet of the stone walkway beyond. She stood for a moment, considering whether to take the chance.

Footsteps from the outside hall made Shampoo jerk to attention. _Decision time! Stay or go? _She wavered for a split second, thinking of her chances of getting taken back to Bevier versus finding him herself – and possibly getting lost – then leaped back to the carving and clicked the pike back into place. The section of wall swung silently back until it was flush, and Shampoo let out a breath as the footsteps neared the door.

But they continued onward, past the room, and Shampoo relaxed. _False alarm_. Her curiosity peaked, Shampoo squinted at the carving, scanning for the same socketed pike, but before she found it another figure caught her eye. Just above her head, a knight rode a horse whose leg had the thinnest of hairline fractures separating it from the main carving. She lifted it up with one fingernail and stepped back immediately, watching as the wall on the other side of the room swung inward.

This one had light spilling from the entrance, and Shampoo approached with more caution than before. A few small noises caught her ear: wood squeaking, fabric rustling, an oddly monotone humming. Leaning slowly into the doorway, she saw that the walls were covered with tapestries of knights and damsels, and the thick carpets on the floor were strewn with little wooden figurines and blocks. She leaned in further and saw a young man happily galloping two wooden horses along together, humming to himself. He was middling tall and slightly chubby, dressed in extremely fine clothes with a heavy gold medallion weighing down his neck.

Then she blinked and stepped closer to the doorway. The boy was older than she had first supposed; there was an innocence in his face, a slight looseness of lip and clearness of eye, which fooled her into thinking he was fourteen or fifteen when he was probably closer to twenty. Her appearance in the doorway made the boy look up, startled. Shampoo's eyes widened, for this boy closely resembled the miniature portrait in the other room, though the artist had obviously done the boy a favor.

He clambered to his feet, saying something in a serious tone of voice. When Shampoo didn't answer immediately, he crossed his arms protectively over his chest and repeated himself, this time with a shrill edge. Hastily she backed up and bowed to the lad, saying, "_Excuse me, please, I didn't know_." He went wide-eyed and retreated a step. Shampoo bit her lip. _Use Elene, he's already frightened! _"Sorry, sorry." She swiftly retreated back out of sight and flipped the horse's leg back into its recess. The wall swung shut again, the wood panels merging once more.

She stood for a moment, letting her heart rate settle. There was no more noise from the other side of the wall, though with the size of the stone walls she doubted there would be any even if the guy was shouting. The thought made her skin crawl, and she almost reached back up to open the door again. _But no, someone has to know he's there. He had to have got _in_, after all. _

At that moment, more footsteps rang outside the hall. Shampoo stepped quickly in the center of the room, trying to seem inconspicuous, as the Lady Dosai let herself in. She looked at Shampoo sharply, and the girl spent a second wondering if the lady had seen her in the corner before deciding, _no, I think her face is always pinched like that._

Lady Dorsai made an exaggerated gesture to follow her, sour expression never changing, so Shampoo fell in beside her. They meandered in silence through several passages and floors at an excruciatingly slow pace. Shampoo caught herself several times from tripping on the lady's skirt, since her natural walking pace was considerably faster and it wasn't _that _constrained by her new skirts. _Maybe there's something wrong with her feet_, she mused. It took them a good twenty minutes to arrive at the courtyard - where, unaware of events transpiring in the dungeon, Bevier had passed through not an hour before, vowing to remove her from the castle.

Yet there was no way for Shampoo to know this, and she peered into the shadows of the walls in vain, looking for a familiar face. Lady Dorsay urged her onward, annoyed at the hesitation, toward the plain black carriage standing ready for them. At the last moment, Shampoo realized what this meant and balked. "Where Bevier?" she asked, scanning the courtyard again. "I go Bevier."

"No," Lady Dorsai sharply. The rest of what she had to say was gibberish to Shampoo, though, apart from _castle _and _wait_.

"No Bevier?" Shampoo pouted. She knew she wasn't likely to get a better answer without the translating skills of her knight-rescuer. The lady took a hold of Shampoo's arm with an attempt at a tight grip; the women's arm was trembling with the effort of it, anyway. Shampoo felt a little sorry for her; what good is authority without the strength to back it up? But she was still an Elder, so it was probably best to follow her lead for now. She wanted Shampoo to get in the carriage, so the girl gave a sigh, took one last look around the courtyard, and stepped inside.

There were heavy curtains covering the windows, but Shampoo's hand was slapped away when she tried to pull them aside. She gave the older lady a reproachful look, which was returned in kind. Then there was a jolt, and the carriage started off.

Shampoo sat for several minutes before starting to drum her fingers, frustrated at the inactivity. A quelling look from Lady Dorsai quieted her for a moment, but routine obedience soon wore off from other irritations. The close quarters quickly grew stuffy and full of what Shampoo could only think of as "old lady smell." The sensation of moving through traffic – without any power over the process – also drove her to distraction. She didn't like boats for the same reason, although they certainly smelled better. Every time she made the journey from China to Japan, she spent most of the trip gritting her teeth and resisting the urge to grab the dinghy and set out under her own oar-power.

Finally, they seemed to pass out of the city and start on an open road, for the pace picked up and there were fewer turns. She raised a hand to the curtain again, watching Lady Dorsai for approval. At her nod, Shampoo twitched the cloth aside and peered out at the crawling landscape.

They were going southeast, she noted, and the land was pretty well cultivated. The occasional farmer paused as they passed, but there were no greetings as there was when Bevier passed. _Weird… but we aren't out on horseback anymore, I guess._

Curious, she popped her head out of the square little window – no glass for these people – and craned her neck upwards to check out the driver. He was obscured by the girth of the vehicle, but more interestingly, someone was behind them on the road. A group of riders in matching uniforms trailed them at a distance, weapons flashing in the sun. Shampoo wondered, _A guard? _They didn't seem to be in any hurry to catch up to them, so she assumed so.

She pulled her head back into the carriage, thinking, _I wonder who would attack us. _Shampoo realized that Lady Dorsai was now back on the edge of the seat, her expression thunderous. Though her voice was even, whatever she was saying to Shampoo had an underlying quiver of anger. It went on for quite some time, and Shampoo attended politely, though only bits of words came through – _don't do that _and _stay _chief among them. _Don't leave the carriage, right_, Shampoo thought glumly. _Naturally all the fun must be stopped as soon as possible_. She sighed loudly and slouched against the side of the carriage. This wasn't particularly comfortable with the swaying and occasional bump, however, so she sat back up. Another farm passed in view of the window, dreary and brown.

Shampoo was not built to be passive passenger. She fidgeted with her bodice. She combed her hair out with her fingers, examining individual locks for split ends. She drummed her heels on the baseboards, looking out the window. Lady Dorsai resolutely ignored her traveling companion's twitches, apparently deciding that they were beneath scolding. Shampoo realized that she wasn't making the best impression, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It was just so_ boring_. The women wasn't even making an effort to communicate, and Shampoo found herself thinking wistfully back on her last few days with Bevier. _Nicer on the eyes, to boot_, she mused caustically, glancing sideways at the sallow, pinch-faced old woman. _Well, plenty of her type in the home village_. The thought was oddly comforting, despite her the strange betrayal of her Great-Grandmother.

Another dreary fifteen minutes passed before the carriage came to a halt inside a stone courtyard. Shampoo sighed in relief, making Lady Dorsai glance at her in what might have been sympathy. What the older woman didn't know was that Shampoo was just at the limit of her tether with that obnoxious pearl box. The unnatural pull at her heart had increased to the point where she was seriously considering jumping out of the carriage and refusing to go any farther. _Just don't go any further east, Bevier-san_, _or I'll have to_ _chase after you and I don't think they'll like that._

Black skirts held high, Lady Dorsai stepped out of the carriage and away into the courtyard. Shampoo peered out, uncertain if she was supposed to follow, and was startled to see that she was in some sort of commune. Four women in head-to-toe cover-ups worked in a small garden, hoeing and digging for weeds, and several others simply sat on benches in the dying afternoon light, talking quietly. She could spot other women wandering through the hallways of the low building, too. Nearly all were past their prime, some old enough to be her grandmother.

_A safe house for women? _Shampoo wondered, stepping out of the carriage. Heads turned, examining their strange visitor, but quickly returned to their various meditations. _A politer bunch than most, anyway, _she admitted grudgingly. Lady Dorsai turned to look at Shampoo over her shoulder, just inside the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, and said, "Follow me, girl."

Shampoo brightened. _I know that one! Although she could have said 'please.' _Casting a final glance over the crowd of women in the courtyard, Shampoo hurried to follow. A rough wooden door led into a whitewashed interior hallway, devoid of decoration or furniture; Lady Dorsai disappeared almost immediately into one of the inner rooms, and Shampoo was taken in hand a pair of blank-eyed brood hens who clucked over her strange appearance, fussed with her clothes, and herded her gently to a spartan bedroom on the second floor. She let them fuss with good grace, not having much of a chance to enjoy it recently, but then they bolted the door without so much as an apologetic look. She gave it a good thump, calling "Hello?" but not really expecting an answer.

She sat on the cot for a minute, waiting, but no one came back. _Hurry up and wait_, Shampoo groused to herself. _Apparently it's a universal. What _is_ it with people leaving me to sit in rooms?_ She rose and opened the shutters, carefully prying them free from the nails holding them shut, and took a look outside. Women below her were just finishing with their routines, gathering tools and beads up to head inside. A red-gold sliver of sun was still lurking reluctantly at horizon's edge, and it had gotten noticeably chillier. The fields surrounding them were hazy in the dying light, and quite far off in the distance Shampoo could just make out the shadow of Coombe's walls. She sighed, wondering what was going on back there. Was Bevier panicked that he had lost his charge, or relieved to have her off his hands? _Either way, this sucks_, she decided, turning away from the view. There wasn't much to occupy her attention within the room – a basin, a bed, some sort of embroidered homily on the wall – and she soon resorted to pacing and listening for activity in the hall.

No one came while the sun set; none one came as the stars began appearing in their unfamiliar constellations. Her stomach started growling, not having been attended to since lunch in the market, but an exploratory call through the door went unnoticed. She contemplated kicking the door down – this one was wooden, happily – but she didn't want to antagonize a possible ally. Giving up, she stretched on the cot and drummed her feet on the wall. "_I hope this annoys you beyond measure,_" she told her invisible neighbor. No answer. The sight of her own legs sticking up out of the skirt seemed unusual, and she realized she hadn't seen them in several days. _Weird_. She ran her hands up them appreciatively, finishing the motion as a stretch.

Finally, Shampoo ceased her fidgeting and reminded herself that she could use the extra quiet time to her advantage. She hadn't done much training in the past few months, and the disgusting little episode in the dungeon made it obvious that she needed to work on her concentration. She pushed herself back upright into a more formal lotus position, spine relaxed but straight. The cot had a wobble that nearly made her lose her pose, but she held it determinedly.

She sat quite still, accepting the slight sway of unbalance, and then turned her attention inward. This was harder than she remembered, if not entirely unexpected. The pull connecting her to the pearl box was an ever-present annoyance, as impossible to ignore as an overstretched muscle. She also hadn't meditated since – well, since her last week in Nerima. Her travels since then had been maddening and frightening – farther from home than she had ever been, lost from her closest friends, possibly betrayed by her own blood, and stuck in a world with no way to talk to anyone… all these fears were tied up with confusion about the people who took such an interest in her, Bevier and Lady Dorsai for starters, and an all-too-familiar pang of nervousness at the thought of her knight-rescuer…

Shampoo stopped herself. The point was to push away all your worries, not start hashing them over. She started a standard exercise, breathing out her worries in dark smoke, breathing in clean air. When she felt considerably lighter, she tried visualizing a kata in her mind. This didn't work as well as it might have, since the shadowy sparring partner quickly morphed into one of her guards, in full armor, which slid into a memory of how much punching steel had hurt.

She let out a frustrated breath and started over. Focusing on her breathing and the flow of blood from her heart to her limbs helped clear her mind; she then methodically loosened every muscle starting from the backs of her ears to the top of her feet. That physical awareness of self made the pull at her heart seem less insistent, allowing Shampoo to accept it as the current state of being and move on into a deeper meditation. She floated for a moment in a center of _being_, both intimately aware of the room and very distant from it, and then began pulling strength into her chi.

Then, ever so subtly, _someone was there with her,_ in the private confines of her self.

Shampoo gasped, her eyes flying open. _That's never happened before!_ No one was in the room with her. "Hello?" she called, making sure. She glanced out the window, equally unhelpful, and sat for a moment, flustered. _Should I try it again? It didn't feel threatening._ She bit her lip. _It felt curious, more than anything_.

Her thoughts kept turning back around to this bizarre intrusion and what it could possibly mean, but she spent another five minutes of staring out of the window before giving in to her curiosity. _If nothing else_, she mused, _it won't be as boring as sitting here with nothing to do_. Shampoo settled herself again, letting her anxieties flow out with each exhalation. Letting her curiosity go was much harder, though – trying to ignore the elephant in order to see it properly, so to speak.

Ten minutes passed, then another. Her mind began to wander a bit, now uncertain whether she had really felt anything. The city she left behind, the forest before that… finally having clean clothes, if bulky ones… the likelihood of sparring with someone, or rather _un_likelihood… sore muscles and bruised fists, really do need to train more often… throbbing in said muscles, heart beating, the healing rush of blood –

A gossamer touch of _something _slipped into her awareness, not quite startling Shampoo out of her meditative state. It stopped just short of being intrusive, a fixed pebble of otherness that sat in her sand garden of awareness, reflecting tiny waves. The visualization seemed to help her focus on it, because the pebble seemed to grow more _real_, though no bigger or pushier.

Shampoo stayed that way for a moment longer, then poked it gently with a tendril of concentration. _What are you? _

To her surprise, it responded. _A friend. If you like. _

_Do I ever!-_ Shampoo reigned in the thought, hoping it hadn't reached this other consciousness. _Yeah, reveal your weaknesses to an unknown, idiot_. She tried to keep the thought private; impossible to know whether it made a difference in this strange, more-than-personal connection. _Why do you want to be _my_ friend?_

_You're going to need one now that you're in Agata's clutches. And I trust Bevier's judgment._

"_**What?"**_ This unexpected comment shocked Shampoo into speaking aloud, breaking her concentration – as well as the connection. Her eyes flew open, searching instinctively for her mysterious visitor, but all was the same as before. Shampoo smoothed her skirts, confused. The presence – _she? It did seem sort of girlish_ – knew and trusted Bevier, but was suspicious of Lady Dorsai. _So if we agree on Bevier, does that mean I should be wary of Lady Dorsai?_ The whole trip took a sinister tinge the more she thought about it. She glanced back in dismay at the pinpricks of light identifying Coombe. Maybe the reason Bevier hadn't come was because of deliberate mischief rather than communication problems, as she had assumed.

But that was also assuming that she could trust Bevier. Shampoo dearly wanted to trust him, and her heart insisted that he was A Good Guy, but did she really _know_? She didn't like Lady Dorsai, but she didn't much like her Great-Grandmother, either, when it came down to it, and the Lady _had_ rescued her from the cells. As for mysterious telepathic visitors – Shampoo didn't know what to think. The unaccustomed uncertainty felt like a knot lodged in her chest.

Why couldn't someone just try to kill her, instead of all these mysterious sojourns to various places? At least back home she knew who to fight, and how to beat them. The comparison made it weigh even more heavily on her heart. "_I don't want to have to figure this stuff out,_ _I just want to go __**home**_," she wailed, eyes filling with tears of frustration and homesickness. "_I __**hate**__ this_." There was no answer from her strange visitor, nor any response from her keepers.

She stared at the blank white walls, letting herself mope for a minute before sitting upright. _I'm all alone, and I need to take care of myself_, Shampoo reminded herself. _Whichever is friend or foe, I am an Amazon, and they will rejoice or regret it when they choose their allegiance. _There, that had a nicely martial ring to it. She grinned fiercely and wiped her eyes free of tears.

Warily, she began meditating again, but the other presence did not make itself known. Shampoo was grateful for the respite in confusing new developments, and she was able to focus her chi well enough in the renewed quiet. The women of the compound certainly didn't bother to interrupt, and Shampoo eventually slipped from meditation to sleep still waiting for them to appear.

* * *

Next time: more from Bevier! I was going to make this another dual-perspective chapter, but it was getting a bit long and I didn't want to make people wait even more. Let me know what you think! 

I don't know if there's anyone who wouldn't know this, but "Sister Act" was a movie from the early nineties. My nuns aren't quite as much fun, unfortunately for Shampoo.


	7. In the Heat of the Knight

You couldn't pay me to write this stuff! Literally. Because that would be intellectual property theft.

**Knight, Interrupted**

by katyclismic

**Chapter 7:****In the Heat of the Knight**

Returning to the chapterhouse, Bevier gave curt acknowledgment to the many questions on the lips of his brothers-in-arms. His inability to free Shanpu was infuriating and slightly baffling. It was rare that a show of force didn't produce at least _some_ results, but he was coming back from his interview with little more information than he went in with. In the privacy of his own room, Bevier let go of a snarl that had been building during the journey back. He shed his armor with a series of bangs that was quite satisfying in a primal sort of way, even if he felt rather silly immediately after.

He noticed the book and slate that he had intended to loan to Shanpu were stacked neatly on his bunk. He had forgotten them in his haste to track the girl, but he was grateful for whichever brother had returned them. Bevier put each back precisely on the shelf, meditative, then slipped into the traditional cassock and left to find his superior.

Dagan soon intercepted Bevier and ushered him into his study. "You were unsuccessful, then," Dagan began gravely. "I feared that it might take more than a single meeting to sway these 'councilors.' "

"Have you met them?" Bevier asked, crossing his arms. "Something very strange is going on at the palace, Sir Dagan. It feels entirely wrong."

Dagan's eyebrows lifted, but he gave a half-nod of agreement. "That is what I gathered, as well. You did not see the king." It was not a question.

"Has anyone? I had of course heard that he was lacking in wits, but he seems to be entirely absent."

"He hasn't been seen since the coronation, where he was far enough away that we could hardly tell if he was a male, much less a fit heir. I fear these cousins may be meddling more in court affairs than I had allowed myself to believe," Dagan sighed.

Bevier paced across the stone floor. "There has to be something that the Order can do. Religious sanctuary?" Bevier muttered.

"Usually the party concerned has to share the religion in question, Sir Bevier," Dagan noted dryly. "Unless the girl has abandoned her heathen ways in the last week or two."

Bevier ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "What, then? Short of sneaking in and stealing her away..." he trailed off at Dagan's quelling look.

"The Order simply cannot agitate too noticeably against the new Baron, something his advisers not only knew but planned on, unless I miss my guess. Hursa is _itching_ to issue an edict or two against the Order," Dagan snorted. "No, Bevier, we must rely on diplomacy in this round. You said they seemed unduly concerned with a Rendorish invasion?" Bevier nodded. Dagan sat for moment, muttering, "Unlikely, and yet a widely-held concern… what purpose could they have in keeping the girl? Does she holds some secret that would profit them?"

Bevier shook his head before Dagan even finished speaking. "Miss Shanpu is an innocent, Sir Dagan, I'm absolutely certain. She is here by mistake, not design."

"Not to her knowledge, anyway," Dagan interjected. Silence reigned for a moment while they considered the implications of this.

Bevier said slowly, "The timing is not exactly _unremarkable,_I admit."

"Now more than ever, I feel that there is something deeply important about her presence here," Dagan said, "even if she does not know it herself. We _must_ retrieve her." He pushed himself up out of the chair and poured himself another glass of wine. "And yet, the new Baron may not realize what he has in his cells, either. Until we know more, we must assume that Hursa and Jupta are trying to tweak our noses, and no more. And that means more negotiation."

Bevier groaned, but quietly. "I suppose it's too much to hope that she escapes somehow." He leaned against the narrow window, looking out at a skyline dim with the last of the twilight. "I've missed Arcium," he said wistfully, "but so much has changed while I was away."

"You're more right than you know," said Dagan pointedly. Bevier looked back at him, surprised at the lighter tone. Dagan shook his head. "I doubt you see it, Sir Bevier, but I remember a time when you would have cracked the skulls of anyone who barred your path to justice. I think you may have actually picked up some temperance somewhere in those heathen lands."

Unsure of how to take this, Bevier began to protest, "You _did_ tell me-"

Dagan flipped a hand, dismissing the whole strange tangent. "Just an observation; pay me no mind, Sir Bevier. I think our first step must be to discover the source of their antagonism toward the church. If we can defuse the situation - or unearth a bargaining chip - they may simply let her go free."

Bevier tapped his fingers against the window ledge, frowning. The idea had merit, but he could see one jarring flaw. "What if their hostility is based on something we can't defuse?"

Dagan steepled his fingers, looking particularly severe. "It's the best course we have at the moment, Sir Bevier. Frontal sieges may be our national specialty, but this situation calls for a little more subtlety."

Bevier sighed. "Beheading is so much faster."

"But harder to get out of the carpet," Dagan replied wryly.

The Champion snorted. "I didn't realize you had met Queen Ehlena."

"I haven't, but some stories do get around." The two shared a smile at the quirks of their royal neighbor, but the humor in Dagan's face quickly faded. "Given that we know little about Hursa and Jupta except that they are bureaucrats, I think the University might be our first stop."

"Assuming that they attended. Jupta is not what I would call _bookish_," Bevier mused.

Dagan snorted. "A fair enough assessment. What we've seen of Hursa's methods indicates that _he_ had scholarly training, however."

Bevier nodded, ever aware of how much time was passing as they talked. "I should be able to find some of his old professors awake even at this hour, if their habits haven't changed in the last few years. You'll excuse me, Sir Dagan."

"Willingly. Godspeed, Sir Bevier," he said, nodding in farewell.

Bevier bowed and shut the door behind him, leaving the hallway abruptly cut off from the warm firelight. The dim, grey stone of the hallway was illuminated only by the ambient moonlight leaking in from the narrow windows, and he welcomed the sudden feeling of isolation and clarity. Heading down the stairs, he heaved a sigh at the thought of the footwork to follow. _Why are the answers always hidden behind a maze of associations? _he brooded silently.

A short ride took him to the other side of the city, where the university belltower cast a long moon-shadow over the lawn. It had been several years since he had stepped foot on campus, not since his younger brother had stopped attending. Neither of them had liked university life, though for vastly different reasons, and it had bothered his mother to no end that none of her boys were successful scholars. Bevier blew out a breath at that particular reminiscence and marshaled his thoughts to the task at hand.

Most of his old professors would still be in residence, he hoped, since change here moved at a glacial pace. He knew of one theoretician who hadn't taught any new material for over thirty years. He counted on that inertia now, as he made his way to the rooms of Astronomy Professor Ithlis.

Despite his age, the wrinkled and bearded old man was still up and star-charting when Bevier interrupted him. Ithlis' muttered litany about inconsiderate younglings didn't pause when he saw the gleaming white of the Cyrinic tabard, nor when he recognized his former pupil. His comments merely got more personal.

"-should know better at your age, Sir Knight, can't get a moment's peace. Aren't you supposed to be protecting the old and weak, not bothering them? No respect these days, no respect at all-"

It took Bevier a moment to remember that the old man would go on indefinitely if he wasn't interrupted. Sense of propriety cringing, he overrode the other's comments, "Good to see you again, Professor. I won't take much of your time."

"-more than I can say for most of these young pups. What is it, what is it then? Can't see that the Church wants to do much with the stars-"

_"_I'm looking for a student from quite a few years ago, and I thought you might remember one. His name's Hursa."

"-Hursa, Hursa, no, can't say I remember such a lad. What's he look like? Not that it matters these days, all these young bravos look the same, year after year-"

"It would've been perhaps a decade ago. Brown hair and eyes, very average-looking, perhaps on the short side."

"-ha, what, compared to you maybe?"

Bevier shrugged one shoulder. "Granted. This Hursa's a weaselly fellow, though. He has a tendency to laugh at everything you say."

"-no bells , no bells, apologies. Did he have a specialty? Maybe try one of the linguists, Sir Bevier, that Tanic has a good mind for faces, not for much else, ha! or he wouldn't be studying words we already know, would he? Students like him, though, true enough, brings 'em in every year-"

"Many thanks, Professor Ithlis," Bevier said over the continued muttering. He bowed and showed himself out, the professor waving a vague goodbye and returning to his telescope, still complaining to himself. Bevier shook his head as he walked toward the arts building, thinking, _I didn't think it possible, but__Ithlis has actually gotten worse. I wonder if he still gets students._

_Tanic. He was on the third floor. _ The class had been one of Bevier's favorites, and his feet knew the way instinctively. Though the building was the same limestone edifice that he tromped through when he was younger, it seemed less intimidating now. The halls were smaller and darker, with visible wear from the hundreds of students that passed through every year.

Tanic's rooms were toward the dark end of the long hall, torches obviously being hoarded by some zealous housekeeper. Bevier waited patiently for his knock to be answered, listening in bemusement to the various thumps, cursing, rustles and crashes that heralded the arrival of the professor. Though less ancient than Ithlis, Tanis was well past the prime of his life, and the bush of hair haloing him in fuzzy glory didn't quite make up for what was missing from his pate. He squinted at Bevier myopically. "Yes?"

Bevier smiled, the seriousness of his mission dismissed for a moment at the sight. "Professor Tanic. Could I have a moment?"

Tanic blinked for a moment. "Bevier?" he asked. "Heavens, it _is_ you. Come in, come in." The door wouldn't open all the way, being blocked by a tower of parchment, but Bevier eased inside after the professor. The lanky old man bustled papers off of a chair, and invited him to sit. "Tea? Kettle's here somewhere. No? Very well, what can I do for you, m'boy?"

The lack of title made Bevier blink, but Tanic had never bothered to observe such things. Bevier got right to the point. "I'm looking for a student that you may have had a decade ago or so. Brown hair and eyes, average-looking, sort of obnoxious. His name's Hursa."

"Few people are, in fact, average-looking," Tanic said thoughtfully. "We have enough facial markers that almost everyone fails to be average in some way. Overlarge teeth, a long nose, wide eyes… perfectly average, you say? None of these things. Dear me…" He paced for a moment, hand on his chin. Bevier eyed the papers leaning against his chair, fully expecting an avalanche at any moment.

"He laughs at things that aren't funny, if that helps," he added.

Tanic blinked and snapped his fingers. "Hartha. Of course."

Bevier shook his head. "Hursa, actually. It could be the same man, though."

Tanic was shaking his head. "No, I distinctly remember his name as Hartha. Came from northern Arcium, by his accent. Disappeared into the family estates after graduation. Couldn't tell you much more than that."

Bevier frowned. He trusted Tanic's memory, but he couldn't afford to start tracking the wrong man. "Do you have a bowl of water handy?"

Tanic blinked. "Whatever for? Never mind, you'll show me. Would a ewer do?" It took them a bit of searching, but Bevier finally unearthed a wooden saucer broad enough to sustain the image spell. After a few muttered words of Styric, a wavy picture of Hursa appeared across the surface. Tanic squinted at it for a moment, but nodded. "That's him. Hasn't changed much."

Bevier sat back down, relieved and pleased that his search had finally yielded fruit. "Excellent. So, 'Hartha' was a linguistics student?"

"Oh, no," the professor shook his head emphatically. "Rhetoric focus. The boy could talk the birds out of the trees, and make them think it was their idea. Annoyed everyone he talked to."

Bevier snorted. "Definitely the same man. Do you recall if he had a brother here?"

Tanic shook his head again. "Never showed. Angered some of the other teachers, having that promised tuition disappear. Bad luck," he commented, a little too cheerfully. Obviously the other professors' pain failed to bother him much.

"From the north, you said?" Bevier asked thoughtfully. "Can you give me a family name?"

"Sorry, he wasn't terribly forthcoming with family details. We don't ask too many questions about family connections," said Tanic, his tone dry. The presence of "younger sons" and other euphemistic relations in the scholarly profession was not unfamiliar to Bevier.

"Do you know of any friends he may have had? Someone else surely must have known him better," Bevier pressed.

"Wasn't terribly popular, I'm afraid. Some of his other teachers may have known him better, but you'd have to track the rhetoricians down in the daytime." Tanic tapped his chin for a moment in thought. "Had a few servants who might know. One was a quite tall fellow," Tanic motioned vaguely above his head, "with a great burn covering his face. Lurv, or something." The professor thought for a moment longer. "Had a horse boy for a while, but one of the other students winkled him away. Quite a dust-up. Better wages, I daresay; dead easy in the purse, ol' Crumbly."

Bevier's lips twitched. "Who would that be?"

"Crumbin. Baronet now, actually. Nice chap, if a bit dense."

With that Bevier had to be satisfied for the night. It had gotten very late indeed by the time he made it back to the chapterhouse, the watch calling a sleepy greeting to him as he passed. Ascending the stairs dragged as much as it did back during training, but now his knees creaked alarmingly. "Getting old," he muttered to himself. A dreary thought.

Sleep called to him as he stretched out gratefully on his bed, but his mind wouldn't settle. Plans for the next morning clamored for attention against the worrisome images of Shanpu being held hostage, scared and alone. Bevier kept trying to convince himself that it would not be politically expedient for them to harm her, and she would take care of herself. Yet he couldn't banish the feeling that he was supposed to protect her, and that he had failed utterly.

Bevier opened his eyes, resigned. The residual moonlight did not illuminate enough of the ceiling to make out any details, yet it still reminded him of the inn where they last stayed. His eyes slid sideways, where there wasn't a cot, nor a sleeping girl. He frowned at the thought. Their travel arrangements had been irregular at best, and when she got back she still wouldn't sleep anywhere near him at night.

That was almost more depressing. He tried very hard to turn his thoughts to something that had nothing to do with blue-haired aliens. Sleep was a long time coming.

.o.

The baronet was well known in the tourney circle, though the other gentlemen generally dismissed him as a good-natured buffoon, affability making up for ineptitude. It didn't take Bevier more than a few hours the next morning to track down his residence in the fashionable end of the city. It matched the rest of the block for ostentatious display, though the architect hadn't gone so far as to sacrifice defensibility. The artist in Bevier could appreciate gilded rococo, even if his practical side was more impressed with the thickness of the iron-studded front door.

A well-dressed older servant answered the door, expression wavering at the sight of a Church Knight looming on his front step. "Sir Knight?" he inquired, voice admirably level.

"Good day. I am in search of Baronet Crumbin."

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir Knight." He really did sound apologetic. "He is not currently in residence. Do you wish to leave a message?"

"I would rather his current whereabouts, or barring that his date of return," Bevier said, trying to hide his irritation at the delay.

"M'Lord is at his hunting lodge, several days journey east. I'm afraid he did not plan to return before the snows hit, Sir Knight." The footman's eyes wandered to Bevier's hands, clutching impatiently at his weapons. "Could I perhaps be of some assistance to the good Knight?"

Bevier hesitated, and searched the man's eyes. There was a genuine respect there, something that seemed all too rare in the city recently. "Perhaps," he said, making his decision. "I'm actually more interested in a boy he hired, over a decade ago. I'm trying to track down the lad's previous master, and this is the only lead I have." The servant made sympathetic noises, and Bevier continued, "The Baronet apparently won his service on a bet, back when he was at the University-" He halted, seeing recognition in the other man's eyes.

"Of course! Young Petar. His story is well-known in the household. He was as glad to come here as we were of him. He's the master of the horse now, has a real touch with them. I also regret to say that he is, naturally, with the Baronet at his lodge."

"Naturally," Bevier said grimly. "I may need to get directions from you, then."

"Certainly, Sir Knight," he agreed. "Although…" he said thoughtfully, looking back into the dimly lit hall. "I believe, if you're looking for his previous master, there may be someone else who can help you." He disappeared briefly into the shadows but returned before Bevier had time to wonder where. "If you would step inside for a moment, I will return shortly. Someone will attend your horse."

Turning, Bevier saw that a liveried boy had already taken the reigns of his destrier. He gave a low whistle, ensuring that it would go quietly with the lad, and stepped into the hallway. His helpful new friend had already turned up the lamps so it wasn't quite so dark, and led him to a receiving room down the hall.

Waiting for this mysterious source of information, Bevier took in the overstuffed grandeur of the furnishings and decorations, some more tasteful than others. A stuffed kit fox with an unlikely expression of fury half-hid behind a massive gold vase, both balanced precariously on vaguely table-like confection of gilt rococo. There were matching tables scattered around the room, with similarly odd artifacts adorning each surface. The knight stood stiffly by the door, leery of destroying the Baronet's keepsakes, however much they made him cringe.

He did not wait long. An elderly woman was ushered in and dipped him a deeply respectful curtsy. "M'Lord," she murmured.

"Mistress Shilia has been with the Baronet's household for over three decades, My Lord Knight. She has mothered many of our young servants, Petar included." The elder man bowed deeply and retreated to the hallway, leaving the woman and Bevier to their privacy.

Bevier judged from the deep laugh lines framing her eyes and mouth that the woman had been treated well under the baronet's care. She gave him a once-over in turn, as respectful as the other servant but wary. For her young charge's sake, Bevier guessed. He quickly introduced himself and gave a significantly edited version of the last few days. "If you have any information about Petar's life before he came to the baronet's household, Mistress, it would be very helpful," he finished hopefully.

"Petar was only with the man a few years," Shilia said doubtfully. "He may not have much useful information for you, Sir Knight." She hummed thoughtfully, and told him, "I can tell you this much, though: seek out Verl, the old manservant, and you'll get your answers, M'Lord. He was in service since that Hartha was a baby, and would know more than anyone else."

Bevier tamped down irritation at this ever-lengthening journey of discovery. "And where could I find Verl?"

"If he's still in the family's service, he'd probably be at the family estate, north of Coombe River. Rawlain was the name, I believe, and it's only a day's carriage ride from the city. Petar said the man was ugly as sin, a burn scar running half across his face, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."

It was enough. Bevier gave his thanks, reclaimed his horse, and made a hasty debriefing to Dagan before heading due north. Rawlain wasn't a name he was familiar with, but the old woman's directions were true, and just after dusk he found himself on the outskirts of a tiny village that lay on the road just before the family estate.

Leaving his horse with Delric back by the road, Bevier headed into town to do some information gathering. He felt strangely naked without either his weapons or tabard, disguised as he was in nondescript merchant garb. The clothing was a central part of the ruse, but he cast a small spell before nearing the inn to cloud his features and the memory of his presence.

From the boisterous noises coming from the inn, it might not have been entirely necessary. Few people looked up as he entered, focused as they were on singing – or shouting –the bawdy "Three Maidens Fair," led by a flamboyant bard. Bevier stooped through the low door and shambled his way to the bar.

"Ale," he grunted. The barkeep, equally caught up in the music, set a sloshing mug in front of him without a second glance and resumed thumping the bar in tempo. Bevier found he had to wait until the end of the song to make himself heard, and his ears burned at the euphemisms peppered throughout the verses.

_Foolish they were, these three maidens fair_

_Though known for their beauty and worth _

_Gems and bright gold indeed filled its lair_

_But, trembling, they're awed at its girth!_

_No hey, nonny ho, watch the sky-o_

_No ho, nonny hey, night and day._

_Such moonlit play the maids all adore:_

'_Ware rousing the lizard once more!_

_Old Dragon, he's wicked and wary,_

_So a champion's called to the fore._

_Striking the drake's head with flair, he_

_Fulfilled the maid's wish - and she's sore!_

_No hey, nonny ho, watch the sky-o…_

Bevier cringed into his ale, but it went over well with the tavern crowd. Sipping, he found it had a pleasant gruit, for a local brew. "Good stuff," he commented to the man next to him.

The man nodded, and turned enough to show a long, vicious burn scar covering half of his face. _Well, that didn't take long_, Bevier thought, blinking. He sent a brief prayer of thanks winging heavenward. After a brief assessment, Verl gave him an off-center smile. "S'why I come here," he replied. "New in town?"

"Just passing though for the night," Bevier said. "Is it always this busy?" The two men chatted for a while in between verses, Bevier deliberately leading the conversation ever closer to his true purpose. Finally, Verl mentioned his life as a servant, and Bevier leapt on the opportunity. "Generous master, was he?"

"Worse than some, better than others. I wouldn't buy a horse off 'im, but he treated us servants all right." Verl shrugged.

"Good family, sounds like," added Bevier.

"Well." Verl paused to take a drink, watching the bard singing in the corner. "His mother was Lady Illein, and a better woman you wouldn't find anywhere. Maybe some of it passed on, but we was all sent to live with her sister after she died a-birthing them. They might have turned out a bit different otherwise.

"Not that I should be saying ill against th' aunt, mind," he said hastily. "M'Lady was a mite high in th' nose, but she still took care of her own. Fostered those nephews without a single cross word."

"Food, clothes, and education," Bevier commented. "Kinder than some would have been."

Verl didn't seem to notice that Bevier was assuming the educational part. "Too true. The university was a good place for Hartha, too – he took to it like a fish to water. Bored me silly many an evening, practicing," Verl chuckled. "I was glad enough to be reassigned to the great house after he finished, because his adminsher- admanstry- ha! – gov'ment work would have been more of the same." The man grimaced, making his burn scar stretch horribly. Bevier began to ask how he was injured, but the man was drunk enough to take a half-hour detour into the tale, and he couldn't afford the time.

Goal in mind, he prodded, "His brother was the same way?"

"Ho! Far, _far_ from it." Verl lifted his mug to emphasize the point, then drained it. The barkeep slid him another, well used to the rhythm of consumption. "He would never stay put, that'un. He got to chasin' after every wanderin' traveler that came within fifty paces of the estate. One summer a drifter promised to take him 'crost the world, and he came back the next day with no boots or money. Idiot," he added cheerfully.

"Right before they was university-bound, he runned off again. Hartha ended up giving him his half of his allowance, so Jontha could'a got pretty far if he was chary. Dunno where he went that time, but we never saw much of him after that. He ne'r was much of a reader anyways," he mused. Bevier snorted quietly. Verl looked up at him sideways, eyes watery. "Ah, beggin' your pardon. Meandering a bit, arn' I?"

Before he could continue, the bard began another old favorite, to a roar of approval. It soon quieted under the lyrical melody of "Kisses Must Wait."

_"You must stay with me now," cried out the fair lady_

_And the dashing young knight believed her._

_As sweet as a bird, small whisperings made she_

_'Til no thoughts remained of besiegers_.

_Away from me, fair ones, away from me now_

_I have no more time to dally_

_Our foe's at the gates and kisses must wait_

_Come then! Our banners must rally._

Bevier was surprised when he turned back to Verl at the end of the song, for his eyes were dreamy and it was a disconcerting expression in so rough a man. "She was a lovely woman, was Illein. Graceful as a bird, and lovely brown eyes. We was all a bit in love with her, tell you the truth - the servants, I mean." He chuckled. "Not the only ones, though."

"Oh?" Bevier's tone was deliberately idle.

"Ah, I shouldn't be spreadin' tales…" Bevier shrugged and sipped his ale, eyeing one of the louder tables. Verl hesitated another moment, looking around. "Well, as a pretty young widow Illein visited with her Lady sister upcountry, y'see, and was laid up for months afterward. Eight months or more, if you get my drift."

Bevier's eyebrows shot up of their own accord. "An assignation?"

"A tragical doomed romance, to hear the maids talk." Verl rolled his eyes so theatrically he began to slide off the stool. Righting himself, he continued, "No common sense, y'ask me. Mooning about in front of the lady, 'course they'd be caught out. Not to mention a babby - two babbies!" He snorted. "And the lady barren, just to salt the wound. They never talked again, and then Lady Illein passed on…" The old man sighed into his ale, eyes watery.

This jumble of information suddenly became clear: Illein had the twins by her sister's husband. Bevier winced at the implications. That still didn't explain how they were connected to the royal family, though. "The father was a minor noble, but the line didn't pass to the twins?"

"Oh." Verl gestured absently, nearly upsetting a mug. "Turns out Lady Ageta warn't totally barren. She had a son right before the boys went t' school. Didn't hear much about it after that –Hartha was bitter 'bout it, speshully since the boy weren't right. Not that the twins would've inherited, necessesssarily."

Things abruptly clicked in Bevier's mind, the pieces perfectly interlocking. _A distantly royal harridan with a lackwit son._ Bevier set the mug down, his fingers gone suddenly weak. Hursa and Jupta were not just distant relations – they were the illegitimate half-brothers of Baron Kiarl.

Genteel nepotism in government positions was a long-standing bureaucratic tradition, but Hursa and Jupta seemed to have an undue amount of power for mere counselors. Questions bloomed in Bevier's mind as to why they were keeping that relation a secret.

Something very strange was afoot in Coombe.

* * *

My outline for his chapter was, in all seriousness, "Bevier searches. Plot thickens." Heh. 

More delicious, delicious reviews will feed my updating fever! All comments and critiques are welcome, especially since I don't have an official beta reader at the moment. Many thanks still to Indygodusk, though, especially for her help with my song rhymes.

References: "In the Heat of the Night" was an excellent movie with Sidney Poitier, and later a tv series.

I also recommend wikipedia's articles on medieval ale and early universities, two significant research issues for this chapter.


	8. Nun on the Run

**Chapter 8**

**"Nun on the Run"**

by katyclismic

[standard disclaimers, no money for me, etc.]

_The warm weight on his chest was pleasant, much better than a warming stone. Soft when he touched it, moving up on four feet. A cat. She butted her head against his hand, rumbling a purr. Obligingly, Bevier scratched her ears and stroked down her back. She circled on his chest and came to a rest, kneading his shoulder gently. She lay pleasantly for an endless moment, then started grooming her paw. Lick, lick, lick, scrape. Lick, lick, scrape. She kept missing her own paw and sweeping a rough tongue over Bevier's skin, part tickling and part painful._

_He reached up to push her back, but she latched onto his hand with soft paws and began grooming his hand, in a lulling reciprocity of his petting. _

_He reached up with his other hand to scratch her ears, and smoothed down long hair instead. His fingers brushed bare skin on her lower back. One of her slim hands traced a line from his jaw to his shoulder, the other splayed warmly over his upper chest. Bevier ran a wondering hand over her shoulder, and then down the smooth skin of her arm. She lifted her head, and he met Shanpu's pleased gaze. _

_He leaned forward-_

And found himself exposed to the chill air of his room, having fallen halfway out of his pile of blankets. Bevier cast a bleary look around. He was alone, the cold moonlight confirming the total lack of girl. Or cat. He pulled the covers back up over his ears, feeling groggy and disturbed. _Truly, the mind plays some odd tricks_, he mused uncomfortably. _I think I'll leave that one out of the confessional for now, lest they think me daft. _

He watched the moon shadows crawl by for a time before sleep claimed him again.

~/~

Shampoo perched casually on the edge of the window sill, watching the laboring women below. Their black habits looked particularly uncomfortable in the heat. Shampoo smirked a bit at the bloomers that encased her legs. They would probably shock the ladies here, but the undergarments Shampoo had stripped down to were nearly grandmotherly by Amazon standards. None of the nuns were looking up at the windows, though.

There was one more floor above her, then the roofline. Shampoo took a breath and then launched herself up and over to the next window, bare foot catching the top edge of the frame. She twisted with a huff and used the momentum to ricochet back and up again, fingertips catching the window above hers. Shampoo pulled herself up cautiously, but the shutters were closed. The maneuver was easily repeated on the next window up, and moments later she crouched on the rooftop, heart pounding. _Still out of shape_, she thought, annoyed at the exertion.

Up here, laundry lines of clean linens billowed in the crisp breeze, interrupted by a few water barrels. Shampoo gave a satisfied nod, looking around. She had to keep her exhalations quiet, but other than that it was an ideal practice space, the smooth stone cool under her feet. The first set of katas stretched her body in ways in hadn't moved in weeks, but she sweated through it. The laundry became both camouflage and opponent, the barrels obstacles and footholds.

She took a long break mid-morning, wondering if she should go down and make an appearance in her room. The hen-women had abandoned her after dropping off a tasteless bowl of mush early that morning. If the routine was the same as yesterday, lunch wouldn't be served until after noon, and then there would be a dreary, uneventful wait until the evening meal. Shampoo was deeply relieved she had discovered a quick route to the rooftop, or she would've been driven insane within a day.

A peek over the side of the roof marked no significant change. Women still toiled in the gardens, some of the more elderly resting on benches next to the walls. Some were shaded by what looked like lemon trees, and Shampoo narrowed her eyes. There was a lot of interesting things you could do with a lemon, given a few other ingredients…

A light winked off metal in the distance and her attention sharpened. _Visitors?_ There was a silly part of her that immediately hoped for a familiar black-haired figure, but she figured the chances were remote. It took several minutes for her eyes to make out that it was several people on horseback, none of them with the blazing white tabard of the Cyrinics.

Interest flagging, Shampoo stretched leisurely, the rest of her kinks finally pulling straight after staying so many days in odd quarters with no exercise. The next kata started off easy, then quickly evolved into a tight series of whirlwind sweeps and blows. The final jab was meant to be a finishing blow to the throat, and Shampoo took her time pulling back the center. Her breath slowed, blood thrumming through her veins, pulling chi in from sky and earth toward her heart. It felt slightly odd, different somehow from the power she grew up with.

It was a curious feeling, almost fizzy. The grounding Shampoo felt at home was solid, uplifting; her meditations left her feeling tall, powerful, in harmony. Here she felt like she could dissolve into bubbles if she wanted to, and fly with the wind.

_Just don't jump off the roof_, the girl-voice whispered, amused. Shampoo inhaled, but didn't lose the connection this time. _You're really interesting, you know that?_

_Good morning_, Shampoo greeted her. _You came back._

_Like a bad penny, _the girl said cheerfully. _There's something you need to hear over on the other end of the building._

Shampoo found herself heading across the roof, despite the warnings from her paranoid side. _Over here? _she asked, not seeing anything. Then Shampoo leaned over the edge of the roof, realizing that a heated discussion was audible through an open window in the floor below.

"-such nonsense," Lady Dorsai was saying sharply. "She will be perfectly safe with me."

"We need her on hand," came a male voice, sharp with restrained irritation. One of the riders, undoubtedly. "If our negotiations are to be effective, we must have our bargaining piece within reach."

_I understood all of that_, Shampoo thought with some surprise. _How-_

_I'm helping a little. Shh. Listen and remember, _ordered the girl-voice.

"-half-day's ride from Coombe," the lady scoffed. "Hardly what I-"

"Selmas wants her close," the man cut in. There was a brief, rather ominous silence, and Sanpu's neck prickled.

"I will of course follow His Holiness' wishes," Lady Dorsai said, her voice quiet with veiled venom.

"Events are moving more swiftly than we had anticipated - the girl's appearance is an god-given opportunity, the first wedge in the edifice of the Church Knights. We must strike while the iron is hot."

Shampoo's eyebrows shot up at this. _A wedge, am I?_

The voices began to fade, moving away from the window. _That was exactly what we needed,_ the girl's voice said smugly. _Now good luck!_

_Good luck with what? _Shampoo said, rather alarmed. There was no response, and she muttered a few dark things under her breath. The Amazon girl dithered for a moment. The conversation confirmed what she had gathered from her mysterious friend the night before last – that she needed to get back to Bevier in Coombe. But would it be better to pretend she had never left her room, and maybe get more information? Then a sharp cry came from her room, and the decision was made for her with a quickly growing commotion at her escape.

Knowing that it would take them a few minutes to search as far as the roof, she squinted westward, toward Coombe. The walls were still faintly visible from this distance. She drank her fill from the rain barrels, calculating possible dangers, and the billowing laundry caught her attention. She grinned. Running through the fields in her bloomers would attract unwanted attention, but she had her solution hanging from the wire: one of the nun's outfits.

Shampoo tied up the long hem to keep her legs unencumbered. Assessing the possible routes off the roof, she judged the stables to be some ten feet below. Moments later, she rolled soundlessly onto its roof, and used the momentum to flip over the edge of the outer wall. Gripping the edge of the parapet, she surveyed the drop. The ground was cleared of debris and brush, and the earth looked hard-packed. There were no ledges or hand holds on the wall, though it was rough enough to climb down if she had the time.

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed to the left and ran sideways down the wall, her bare feet getting just enough purchase on the rough stone to prevent it from being a free-fall. She rolled when she hit the ground, keeping momentum, and sprinted for the fields. It wasn't quite harvest, and she thought she might be able to duck into the wheat stalks.

_Ten seconds_, came the unexpected warning. A spike of adrenaline summoned energy from her fingertips to toes and Shampoo ducked into the wheat just as the outer doors of the convent opened. A column of horses thundered out, with several searchers on foot. Blood humming at the nearness of it, she whispered a thanks to her benefactor and darted deeper into the field.

A faint cry came, and she figured that someone had found a footprint outside the wall. If they had her track the journey to Coombe was going to be treacherous. She had to hope that her mental visitor would stick around for long enough to get her through, but she pushed herself to move faster.

~/~

Odd dreams banished with a hearty breakfast, Bevier set out at a trot the next morning with Delric trailing behind. The implications of his discovery were knotty, and Bevier spent all morning picking at it. The chief question, _How could this have remained a secret for so long?_ kept circling in his mind, following closely by_What do they mean to do with the connection?_ Arcian court politics weren't nearly as convoluted as some kingdoms; they were a pleasant waltz compared to, say, Lamorkand. Yet the courtier were just as keen-eared, and none had heard rumors of the brothers' royal connections. With their half-brother hidden from public eyes, the two brothers were effectively running the city, which would be incentive enough. But why the steady oppression of the Cyrnics, or the general sense of unease throughout Coombe? Though the Champion worried at it, he came to no new insights before meeting Dagan back in the chapterhouse.

Bevier and the Interim Preceptor were deep in discussion when the page arrived, panting from the stairs. "We must have more information-" Dagan was saying, a thick finger drilling the table. "Yes, lad? Speak."

"M'Lords," the lad bowed. "The girl is back. She is returning to her rooms now."

Bevier shot to his feet, debate forgotten. "Miss Shanpu is back? By herself? How did she get here?" He breezed past the boy, still firing questions. "Was there an escort? Has she been treated well? When did she get here?"

The lad's stumbled through several iterations of "I'm not sure – no – well, I didn't really-" as they wound upward to the room, Bevier trotting the last few steps down the hall. Dagan waved a dismissal to the flustered novice, and nodded to the knight stationed at the door.

Bevier reigned in the urge to pound on the door, and simply knocked twice. "Miss Shanpu, are you really- oof!"

Shanpu launched herself at Bevier the moment the door was clear of the frame, and the two stood for a second wrapped completely around each other. It was, in truth, a wonderful feeling. As hard as she was trying to squeeze the air out of him, he felt like he could fully breathe from the first time in days. For a long moment Bevier reveled in having her secure in his grasp at last, smelling of sun and spices and girl.

Only a step away, Dagan was watching them with bemusement. Gently, Bevier pulled away, and tilted her face up to be examined. "You are unharmed, Miss Shanpu?" Her wide violet eyes were tired, but she didn't have any obvious bruises. She was wearing an odd black robe, not the dress she had left in.

"Bevier-san," she said, but her voice cracked, and she hid her face in his tunic. Bevier exchanged a stony look with Dagan, and they ushered her back into her room. Bevier sat her gently on the cot and fetched a cup of water from the ewer in her room. The girl wiped tears away, leaving grubby streaks on her cheeks, and gladly accepted the water. Bevier began to ask her the same questions that he had asked the page earlier, but had to refill her cup twice before she seemed able to speak.

"What _happened_?" Bevier finally bit off. Shanpu sighed, and looked mournfully down into her cup. "Please, Shanpu."

She looked up at him through her lashes, embarrassed. "Shanpu very sorry, Bevier-san. She be very stupid, go alone and then get taken away." Her face crumpled a little. "Shanpu no want to go away."

"Away where, child?" Dagan said calmly, when Bevier didn't say anything for a moment. He was visualizing, as it happened, Hursa's head smashing repeatedly into the wall, and couldn't seem to think of anything to say that wasn't an oath and unfit for a lady's ears.

Shanpu gestured out the window. "Shanpu and Lady Dorsai go east of city. Big house and lots women together." She made a face. "Is very bad food."

Both men had started at the mention of the Duke's mother. "There is convent that Lady Dorsai patronizes," Dagan rumbled. "That would be more proper for a girl hostage than the palace prison."

"Convent," Shanpu repeated, nodding. The black robe suddenly made a great deal of sense, and the two Cyrinics exchanged intrigued glances. Dagan pulled up a spare chair, and Bevier knelt next to the her. "Two _days_," Shanpu griped, "And that far-" she gestured with a clenched fist, giving Bevier an sharp look. Bevier frowned, not understanding. "Shanpu sits and waits so long! Girl says Lady Dorsai is bad Lady. She is bad Lady." Shanpu repeated, stern. "And Shanpu so bored! So she escape." She grinned at Dagan. "Shanpu back."

"You just..." Dagan waved a hand, "escaped? And came back _on foot_?"

Bevier, knowing her a little better, had perked his ears at the bigger mystery. "Girl? What girl?"

It took Shanpu several minutes, even with Bevier translating, to get across the idea of a strange voice speaking in her head. Dagan's expression was polite, but Bevier knew she wasn't daft, or lying. "That's very like her," he muttered. Both Shanpu and Dagan blnked at him, and he explained, "This appears to me the none-too-delicate touch of Aphreal, unless I misjudge."

Dagan sat forward. "That's the Pandion Order's…. patron, is that right?" Bevier nodded. The awkwardness it placed on the Orders to rely on magic from a god that they didn't worship was an especially touchy subject in Arcium. They would have tread carefully both in public perception, and even within the Church. Then the Preceptor asked doubtfully, "She would be so direct?" It was relatively unheard of for divine Romalic to contact the parallel Cyranic Order, much less the populace at large. Bevier gave a minute roll of his eyes, and nodded.

If the Younger Gods were involved, something much bigger than court politics was in the works. "Unless I'm badly mistaken, Miss Shanpu just got elevated to the rank of major player in this drama." Shanpu's eyes were worried and confused, and he knew she didn't understand. He tried to explain in Putonhua, and her expression brightened. He hesitated at this unexpected reaction, and took her hand in both of his. "_Do you understand? You are in _more_ danger now. Lady Dorsai and others will be fighting to get you again."_

Shanpu grinned, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "_I hope so. I have missed good opponents."_

Bevier couldn't help grinning in return, though his anxiety did not abate. She was fierce, that was certain.

"I think we need reinforcements, Sir Dagan," he said turning to the Preceptor. "With the way the wind is blowing in Coombe, I don't trust keeping her here in the Chapterhouse."

"What? Yes, certainly." Dagan waved a hand, obviously puzzling through something else. "We ought to inform the other Chapters, and the Sarathi. Certainly King Dregos will want to know." He paused. "The original plan to send you both to Cimmura should stand. Sephrenia's depth of knowledge will speed the exchange of information, something we're sorely lacking right now. Hergrim will be able to contact the other Chapters, and we'll send riders off to the Basilica and Larium."

"Hergrim. Have I met him?" Bevier asked, frowning. He couldn't remember their latest tutor in the Styric arts, not having as close a relationship as the Pandions had with Sephrenia. Brash Romalic tended to wear his disciples out quickly, unless they came to the position with a great deal of prepossession.

"Possibly," Dagan said, being curiously oblique. "Ten knights will assemble as an escort for you on the morrow. Does that satisfy?"

"As you say," Bevier conceded. "Time does seem to be pressing." He turned back to Shanpu, who was trying to follow them with limited success. "We leave tomorrow. We go to people who will help us," he told her.

The girl nodded. "Shanpu stay here for Bevier." She twinkled up at him, then her eyes became pleading. "Only-"

Bevier knelt by her side quickly. "Yes?"

"Shanpu is so hungry. There is food?" she asked plaintively.

Dagan chortled. "Of course, Miss Shanpu. I'm sure Sir Bevier will be happy to get you something." The look he sent Bevier's way was arch, but Bevier complied with good humor, happy to at last have his charge back in hand.

Notes:

Been a long time, hasn't it? Many many things have changed since I last posted, all to the good, but I'm also happy to be back working with this story. I hope not everyone has lost hope of future installments, because you guys are seriously the best incentive to actually continue writing! I rewrote this chapter about four times, not least because I lost several chapters in a computer crash in 2009. :*( So there's lots more to come, even if most of it only exists in my head right now…


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